


Lost and Found

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected blast from Ethan's past has far reaching consequences...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Self-beta'd. Narrated by Will.
> 
> I absolutely suck at summaries, and for that I both apologise and hope you'll give the fic a go anyway.
> 
> My heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who's left kudos on my previous fics. :-) It definitely means a lot to me and, yes, has very much had an encouraging effect.

============  
Lost and Found  
by TalithaX  
============

 

There are a lot of things I understand about the surreal situation I unfortunately find myself in. I understand that I'm in trouble, quite a lot of trouble actually, and that I could well die here. In fact I even understand that the likelihood of death is rapidly becoming something of a high probability. Consciousness has come and gone from the moment I first woke bound and naked on the cold concrete floor, but now it's lucidity that's becoming more of an issue as I can no longer differentiate between what's real and what's not. Pain and dehydration blur reality and I struggle to follow a train of thought through to the end. I don't want to die here – wherever the fuck here just may be – but what I also understand is just how truly hopeless things are.

Thanks to training, some might say an insatiable desire for knowledge, and just general logic, I – for the want of a better description – understand both the concept and the purpose of torture. Understand, that is, in the basic, text book sense. Torture, the act itself and the threat of it, feeds on an instinctual fear of pain and losing control. Threaten the weak willed with water boarding and odds are they'll be blabbing their secrets even before you've turned on a tap. Threaten someone with a far greater character or who are trained to withstand just about anything and you'll actually have to go through with it before you see so much as a chink in their armour. Eventually though, with patience and the right implements or psychological edge to find their Achilles Heel, you'll probably either get the information you want or have a dead body on your hands. If you're a sick fuck you might even enjoy the process. Hell, what with it taking all sorts, you might even just do it to get your twisted rocks off. 

Torture, I get. I've studied it, been a part of it on all sides of the fence – victim, interrogator, trainer, trainee, witness – and although it's not something I'm particularly proud to admit, I can't deny that it has its uses. 

I also get, although only in the cold, harsh academic sense, the power play of rape. Electrodes and having your fingernails ripped off might hurt more, but nothing renders you as defenceless and debased as having to succumb to the horror of having someone shove their cock in you against your will. Ignoring the romantic crap of sex being something best experienced in a loving relationship, it's still something... private, something you give... willingly. It doesn't matter that it could just be a sordid encounter in a back alley somewhere solely because you were feeling horny as it's still both by choice and consensual. It can even be nothing more than a means to a pleasurable, sticky end. To be taken by force though, to have no say whatsoever in respect to what's being done to your body, it's perhaps the ultimate play in being made to feel both worthless and powerless. 

Not that it helps anything, but I can more or less understand why he's doing these things to me. Well, that is if I could understand... why. 

Why me?

From what little I've managed to glean – his Texan accent, rage, and clear hatred of either me or what I represent – from my captor, there's no connection I can make between the mission and my predicament. Basilio Perez, our target and reason for being in Havana, is a high risk and highly expensive assassin wanted for killing an agent who got too close to the arms trafficking cartel he's linked to. Car bombs and immaculately aimed bullets from his sniper rifle are his favoured methods of death. I'm personally acquainted with the huge file IMF have on 'La Pantera', as he's reverently known in the underground circles he frequents thanks to the large tattoo of a panther on his left shoulder, and nowhere does it mention a predilection for either abduction or torture. Nor is he a team player or the sort of person who'd call on the services of outsiders to do his dirty work for him. If Perez wanted me dead, I would be. A bullet would have entered my forehead as I walked back to the stakeout from the restaurant and that just would have been that, game over. He never would have bothered with taking me off the street and... playing... with me for this long. It's just not his style.

So, yeah, it's definitely not Perez. Which, actually is quite unfortunate because at least if it was the team would have had a lead to follow. The unknown factor here however is just that, unknown. Given that I have no idea who's behind what's happening, I simply can't imagine the team being successful in finding me before it's too late. They're good, the best even, and God knows IMF have every technological toy known to man and then some at their disposal, but sadly none of it accounts for anything without a lead to start with. Toys are great, granted, but at the end of the day good old fashioned intel trumps them at every turn. Without it you're basically staring at a dead end before you even start.

Dead end.

Dead.

Sounds about right, actually.

Some man, essentially a complete stranger I can find no link to in my extensive memory banks, abducted me from the street, threw me into the trunk of his car and drove me to this dark, empty room. From the smell of oil and metal hanging heavily in the cold, dank air, it could well be a room inside of a disused – going on the complete silence – warehouse but, as with everything, I can't be sure and may not even ever know. No light enters my prison and the chain around my right ankle stops me from exploring it in order to get a better idea of its actual size.

He comes at random intervals and, this is where my comprehension becomes confused, without any form of verbal foreplay simply launches his attack. Beating seems to be his preferred method of keeping me down. Not even particularly creative beating either. Fists, feet, a once-off with an iron bar that I think cracked my ribs, but nothing out of the ordinary. He's not a big man, or even especially fit going on the way he sweats and pants while going about his attack, but I can't fight back courtesy of both the chain around my ankle, the rough rope binding my wrists together and the concussion from too many blows to the head that has left me incapable of remaining upright on my own, let alone being capable of self defence. I think he's only forced himself on me twice but, who knows, that could just be wishful thinking on my part.

I'm kept captive and in constant paint, but...

That's it.

He doesn't threaten, he just attacks. Nor has he – asked me a single, solitary question – demanded any answers from me. He hasn't even ranted and raved about IMF in general or screamed about payback. I'd be prepared to put my unfortunate situation down to simply having had the bad luck to fall prey to a run-of-the-mill sadistic serial killer, but that doesn't feel right either. He's full of hatred for me for some reason, but I honestly don't think he's getting any great enjoyment out of what he's doing. The rapes, not that this lessens their impact any, were more... perfunctory, as though he felt he had to do it, than fuelled by sexual appetite, and the beatings are just beatings. A serial killer, I'm sure, would enjoy his work more and be more imaginative in how he went about it.

No word I can think of seems the right one to use, but it's either ironic, pathetic or downright delusional, but...

I almost wish I could be confident that he was just some garden-variety serial killer.

That way I'd have a better idea of just where I stood. Still neck deep in shit and sinking fast, yeah, but at least I'd know why.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Having no reason to think anything to contrary, I put the unfamiliar sounds of movement coming from outside the four claustrophobic walls of my cell down to being a figment of my distorted and far removed from reality imagination. I could be unconscious and dreaming, or I could be inhabiting the strange, foggy world of semi-consciousness that seems to be my lot these days. Either way it doesn't matter a damn because the one thing, probably the only thing, I'm certain of is that it's not real. Or if it is, and this isn't something I'd want to bet my last dollar on, it's not going to prove to be good news anyway. So, you know, why care in the first place?

Time having lost all meaning, I have no idea how long I've been here and consciousness, when it comes, is both brief and all too other worldly for my liking. The rope being far too tight, I've lost all feeling in my hands which, in a warped sense is a good thing because it means there's one part of my body that's pain free. It's a concept that's never mentioned in training, one that is never even whispered in passing or raised as a possibility, but I've quite literally given up. The pain and the complete and utter lack of comprehension in respect to why this is happening to me is just too much. I've never considered myself a defeatist and I've been in both agony and situations that have appeared hopeless before, but this is just something entirely different. I still don't want to die, don't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of letting him think he's won just whatever the fuck it is he thinks he's after, but nor do I have it in me to fight what I'm viewing as the inevitable. 

The door suddenly banging open and the overhead light being turned on, I groan as a brilliant fluorescent glow banishes the darkness and try to curl into an even tighter ball. He never put the light on, preferring instead to – not to ever see me clearly – use the dim illumination coming in from outside the open door, so the brightness is a big shock to my already at the end of its tether system. Closing my eyes, I whimper again and tell myself that the gloriously recognisable voice babbling over me is a sure sign I've reached the point of no return, that it's finally happened and my mind's snapped for good.

“Oh shit... Shit, shit, shit! Will... Fuck! Don't you dare die on me now, you git, Ethan would have my balls! It won't even have to be my fault as he'd still have them!'

Why my delusional subconscious would choose Benji's voice as the last one I'd want to hear is anyone's guess, but I'm not complaining. Far from it, in fact. At least it's familiar and I can kid myself that what he's saying makes complete sense.

“Jupiter. Saturn's been located. I repeat, Saturn's been located. Last room on the left. He's alive but, shit, he's been done over good.”

My last thought, as a hand tentatively closes around my shoulder, before everything goes blissfully black is that it's nice of my imagination to leave me with an hallucination I can believe in, one that I won't even mind if it turns out to be my last. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I wake, or so my imagination will have me believe, in a hospital bed. As delusions to have go it's a good, reassuring one, but at the same time I'm almost oddly disappointed by it. The details are all there, captured in high definition perfection, but it's, I don't know, just... boring or something. The flat, hard mattress, the empty-headed feeling of having been pumped full of painkillers, the inability to convince my eyes to open, the sterile smell of antiseptic that seems to coat everything it wafts over, the swathe of too tight bandages around my ribs, wrists and ankle. It's all there. Maybe it's the analyst in me, the constant quest for irrefutable evidence or the fact I'll take documentaries over Hollywood blockbusters any day, that stifles my imagination's more creative side and makes it err on the side of reality. If I'm really still unconscious in my prison though, which is what logic tells me has to be the case, why can't I be being kept entertained by something improbable, huh? I'm not saying they're my most secret of secret desires of anything like that, but surely driving a F1 car alongside Senna or being a roadie at a Rolling Stones concert would be more worthy an hallucination than lying in a hospital bed.

Giving up on trying to open my eyes, I concentrate on emptying my mind of all the nonsensical and pointless thoughts crowding into it and, when in Rome and all that, allow myself to be lulled into a most likely false sense of security in regards to the hospital bed scenario actually being real. Like hearing Benji's voice – although that probably didn't happen either – it's make-believe at its most realistic and that in turn makes it a source of comfort. I may well be dying and this is my mind's attempt to make the experience more... pleasant, but if that's the case then so be it. Having been through enough recently I'll take anything I can get.

“And I am telling you as his doctor, Mr Hunt, that I do not believe it to be in his best interests to be moved so soon.”

My attention snared hook, line and sinker far more by the reference to Ethan than by the female doctor's heavily Spanish accented English, I focus on the conversation being played out to my left and don't even bother trying to work out – how long they've been there for – what I might have missed courtesy of having been so transfixed by the contents of my own head.

“While I thank you for your concern, Dr Garcia, I really must insist that he be transported to Washington as early as tomorrow morning,” Ethan replies in that cool, unflappable manner of his that he uses when, regardless of what it may take, he's confident of getting his own way. “My people will make all the arrangements and you will not be inconvenienced in any way. I will also see to it that the hospital receives a large donation as a token of our appreciation for all the excellent care you have given my friend.”

“You are not listening to me, Mr Hunt,” Dr Garcia responds with just a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. “His injuries, they are not good. He requires rest, not to be picked up and carted back to the States like a package. Did you not listen to a word I did say when I was trying to explain his injuries to you?”

“Dr Garcia...”

“No!” Dr Garcia cuts Ethan off as though he hadn't even spoken and sighs with obvious annoyance. “As I do not believe you heard me I shall tell you again. See those bandages on his wrists, yes? They are there because the skin beneath is torn and inflamed. If they are not cared for properly he is at risk of developing a serious infection. You would not want that now, would you?”

“Of course I wouldn't want that!” Ethan retorts just a tad tetchily. “Like you, Dr Garcia, I simply want what's best for..”

“And still you are not listening,” the doctor interrupts, cutting Ethan off again and no doubt scoring herself a fleeting – quickly hidden behind his usual mask of professionalism – glare for daring to argue with him. “He has severe concussion and is suffering from dehydration. I can not even begin to imagine the beatings he suffered and it is a miracle, dios mio, a miracle, do you hear me, that he has no broken bones. His ribs, they are fractured and he is bruised all over. Surely you can see that remaining in hospital, that complete bed rest, is what he requires to heal.”

“I'm taking him back to our infirmary, not releasing him back into the wild to fend for himself or sending him off to run a marathon,” Ethan responds snidely before sighing and, I just know it, softening the blow of his sarcasm with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. That was uncalled for and I hope you'll forgive me.”

“You are concerned for your friend, there is nothing to forgive,” Dr Garcia replies matter-of-factly. “I still am not convinced however that you are appreciating how important it is for him to remain here for at least the next few days. He... He has been used... Sexually... Yes? You are knowing what I mean? There is tearing and...”

“And it is because of this more than anything else that I must insist upon taking him back to Washington,” Ethan states in a soft, flat voice. “It is imperative that he is put on a course of P.E.P. as soon as possible.”

“P.E.P.? I am sorry, but I do not know of what you are referring to.”

“Post Exposure Prophylaxis. Treatment meant to hopefully prevent HIV exposure. It needs to be commenced within seventy-two hours of exposure and, as we don't know exactly when that was, it needs to be started sooner rather than later. This is meant with no disrespect, Dr Garcia, but as it's not something I believe you have access to at this hospital I am going to have to insist that we take him back with us in the morning.”

Deciding at this point that I've probably heard enough and having no real opinion in regards to whether I remain here or whether I'm packaged up and shipped back to Washington, I tune out Ethan's and the doctor's debate and tune into the arrival of Jane and Benji to my right. 

“Dear God, he looks awful,” Jane comments as she pulls up a chair and sits down. “Just look at him. As black eye's go that's definitely an award winner.”

“Actually,” Benji murmurs with none of his usual perkiness, “compared to the rest of him his face is positively unblemished. Shit, Jane. For a dreadful second I honestly thought he was dead.”

“Black and blue, huh?”

“And red. Lots and lots of red.”

“I wouldn't want to be the bastard that did this should Ethan get his hands on him,” Jane sighs. “I'm not saying it wouldn't be well deserved, but, hell, there's no way it would be pretty.”

“First find out who he is,” Benji mutters flatly. “I don't want to state the obvious or anything, but if it hadn't been for the note we'd probably still be running around like headless chickens not knowing where to even begin looking for him.”

Note? What note? This whole sorry mess just gets stranger and stranger, it really does.

“You're right. Without that note...”

“It doesn't bear thinking about, does it...”

“No. It doesn't. God, Benji...” Jane lightly trails her fingers across my forehead. “We could have lost him. We don't even know why, but we could have lost him.”

“But we didn't,” Ethan interjects as, the door quietly closing behind the undoubtedly defeated doctor, he joins the others by the right side of the bed. “Jane. I want you to make the arrangements for the jet to be here tomorrow morning. Wheels up at ten at the latest. Oh, and make sure Dr Watkins back at the infirmary knows to expect Will. I want everything all ready for him by the time we get there.”

“Consider it done,” Jane replies, giving my hand a quick squeeze as she stands up and begins to move away from the bed. “I'll pack everything up back at the motel too, so we'll be good to go first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Ethan murmurs as, sighing, he sinks down in the chair she'd only just vacated. “Benji. I want you to go back with Jane and to find out everything you can about the note. And I mean everything, right down to what sort of tree the paper was made from if you think it'll help us track the bastard down who did this to him.”

“What about you?” Benji queries. “Given how little we know in respect to any of this, who's to say Will's safe here? Perhaps we should take it in turns standing guard...”

“I'll be here all night,” Ethan mutters, “and, trust me, he'll be safe. The way I feel right now? It'd be an act of suicide just by showing up at the door. Now... Please. Go. You've got work to do.”

“Come on, Benji,” Jane murmurs as, knowing when she's been dismissed, she begins to walk towards the door. “They'll both be in the exact same position tomorrow, I'd bet my life on it.”

“Mmm... 'Kay. You'll let us know if there's any changes in his condition?”

“Of course. Oh... And, Jane? Benji? Thanks. I know you both want to be here too but the tasks I've given you are important ones.”

“And we'll get them done,” Benji replies. “Okay then, let's get this show on the road. Night, Ethan, night, Will. We'll see you in the morning.”

Jane and Benji leaving the room coinciding with my fragile hold on consciousness slipping away, I feel Ethan tenderly picking up my hand and squeezing it before everything once again turns to nothingness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Resting my head against the cool glass of the passenger door window, I close my eyes and silently will the car faster. Ethan, under what passes as perfectly normal circumstances -- a short trip to the 7-Eleven to pick up milk, a nice drive in the country for the sole purpose of simply having a nice drive as opposed to needing to get from A to B in the quickest time possible -- drives like a complete lunatic. I have seen vehicles five times the size of what he's driving pull over in order to both get and stay out of his way because when, in their eyes, the inevitable crash occurs they don't want to be anywhere near it. Truth be told I'm not adverse to turning a blind eye to the speed limit -- road rules, road signs, general courtesy to fellow motorists -- when I get behind the wheel either. It's, or so I'm sure we all tell ourselves anyway, one of the perks of the job. As I'll never know when my ability to drive as though I'm trying out for NASCAR will come down to a life or death situation, really, it's only right that I practice driving as fast as I possibly can at every given opportunity.

Right now however, and why beat around the proverbial bush, Ethan is driving like an old man. Last time I looked the speedometer actually read lower than the limit, which is something I don't think I've ever seen before, not even when the car he's been driving has been stuck in what most reasonable members of the public would call gridlock. I know why he's doing it, because he thinks I'm so damaged and fragile that I might just shatter if he took a corner too quickly or caused me to tense up in my seat, but, seriously, I just wish he wasn't bothering. Damaged, I may be, but I'm certainly not fragile. Hell, I'm so numb from all the painkillers being shoved into my veins or down my throat at every given opportunity that he could pull a taser from his pocket, jam it directly into my chest and hit me with full voltage and I doubt I'd feel so much as a sting. I don't even know if I'd called it comfortably numb. More just... Numb. And all over too. I deliberately dug my fingernails into the palm of my left hand when we drove through the IMF gates and if not for the crescent shaped indents left by them I wouldn't even have known I'd done it. I'm not complaining, as God knows numbness is preferable to the all over ache that seems to emanate from my very core the second it begins to wear off, but I just wish it didn't leave me feeling quite so heavy limbed and thick headed.

I've accepted that this is all real, that I was actually rescued and really am in Ethan's Mercedes being driven home to collapse in my very own bed as opposed to feeling it's all just a figment of my overwrought imagination. It took a while, until waking up under the intense gaze of Dr Watkins in the IMF infirmary after having no recollection of either leaving the hospital or flying back to Washington by jet, in fact, but if nothing else I'm now firmly grounded in -- foggy, lethargic -- reality. I know as much about everything that's happened as anybody does. The only reason the team were able to find me was because a cryptic note, a hastily scrawled address, nothing more, had been left on the windscreen of the hire car which led them to my location. I then spent one night in a Havana hospital before being flown back to IMF headquarters and poked and prodded by Dr Watkins and his team for another night before being, complete with a brown paper bag full of drugs and a lecture to not do anything stupid like think I'm actually ready to do anything more strenuous than limp from bed to armchair, signed out to Ethan's care. I've told my story, what little there is to it, more times than I care to remember. Abducted, beaten, sexually assaulted -- it's ultimately meaningless, and I know a shrink would have a field day with it, but I refuse to use, to even acknowledge, the 'R' word -- and, hey, that's basically all I can tell you. No, he didn't want to know anything. No, he didn't give any indication as to his motivations. No, I don't know why he did it and, no, I'm not keeping anything from you.

It's strange, and I'm aware enough to realise that it's out of character for me, that it flies in the face of my usual need to know absolutely everything, but for now at least I'm happy to simply put what happened behind me. I don't want to think about all the unanswered questions or to even involve myself in getting to the bottom of it. It's blinkered of me, and I accept that burying my head in the sand isn't going to do any good in the long run, but I just want to concentrate on recovering physically before I even contemplate working on the mental side of things. I won't be able to hide forever, in fact it may not even last the week before curiosity gets the better of me. For now however, the less time I spend thinking about it the better.

Stifling a yawn, I hope I stay awake long enough to walk inside of my own volition instead of having to rely on Ethan to get me to bed and idly pull down the sleeves of my sweatshirt to fully cover my hands. It's a warm day, easily nice enough to be in short sleeves, but I'm wearing a dark grey Adidas sweatshirt -- that I have absolutely no idea where it came from as it just materialised with my sweat pants when the green light was given to leave the infirmary -- and can't ever recall having been more instantly fond of a piece of clothing before. It's not my usual style and -- I swear Benji had to literally bite his tongue to stop himself from passing some sort of home-boy or wannabe rapper comment -- would have to be at least two sizes bigger than I need, but these small niggles aside, it's perfect. I don't ever want to take it off. It's soft, more than big enough to skim over all the bandages and wounds without aggravating them further and, best of all, the arms are so long that they easily cover the still pristine white bandages around my wrists. I feel both comfortable in it and, possibly illogically, as though I can all but hide in it.

“Will?” 

Ethan's quietly spoken use of my name drawing me out of my shell and back in to the here and now, I open my eyes and note by the familiar gas station directly outside the window that we're still a good twenty – ten, if he didn't think he was driving Miss Daisy – minutes from home. Clearly I'm still struggling with the concept of time however as, regardless of how slowly we're moving, I could have sworn we'd have been closer than we are. “Mmm?”

“Oh. You're not asleep then,” Ethan replies, sounding it just has to be a said a little on the surprised side. “I thought, seeing as you didn't reply, that you must have dozed off again.”

He said something that I missed? Ooops. Damn. Having a good reason to be off with the fairies or not, I need to get with the program and try to act like a fully functioning human being again, not a zombie. “Sorry,” I murmur. “I was miles away.”

“You okay?”

“I'm fine.” I'm not, and he knows this is as well as I do, but, come on, what am I really going to say? The truth? Actually, I'm numb from the top of my head down to the tips of my toes and I honestly feel as though I'm in danger of losing the plot? Some things just go without saying.

“If you'd prefer to be back in the infirmary, just say the word and I'll take you straight back,” Ethan offers, the unfamiliar feeling of doubt I now inspire in him coming through clearly in his voice. “I thought you'd be more comfortable at home, but...”

“Home's good,” I interject before he can continue. “Don't worry about me, Ethan. I've been better, yeah, but I'm still fine. You heard Dr Watkins. Rest, rest and more rest with a side serving of a cocktail of drugs, that's all I need and, you're right, I may as well as be at home as anywhere.”

“So long as you're sure.”

“I'm sure.” Aware that I sound far more querulous than either I want to or Ethan deserves, I slowly turn to face him and dredge up a tired smile. “Sorry. I'm not very good company at the moment and will understand completely if you don't want to speak to me again.”

Returning my smile with a far more genuine looking one of his own, Ethan gives a small shrug and, turning his attention to the road, replies, “As I'm not planning on going anywhere, I'll cope. Besides, since when have you known me to be warned off anything?”

“Fair point, and proof I would think that I'm not with it.”

“And again I say I'll cope.”

“Ever been called stubborn?”

“You know I have.”

“You've got me there,” I retort, grateful for his stubborn streak and refusal to ever give in even if I don't currently have it in me to show it. “So... Fine. You win. Although I still fail to see what you're going to get out of it, you're stuck with me. Just don't expect too much, yeah? You don't need the disappointment.”

“Given the relief I'm still feeling about having you back, you don't have to worry about disappointing me,” Ethan states, directing his response directly to the windscreen. “Actually, Will... I know you won't want to hear this, but I've just got to tell you that... I'm sorry...”

He's right. I don't want to hear it and effectively confirm this for him by not replying. It would be expecting too much, I know, to be treated no differently than normal, and I'd probably be sympathetic and overly helpful myself if the tables were turned and I was the one driving an injured Ethan home, but... I just really don't want to hear it.

“Will?” Frowning, Ethan brings the car to a smooth stop at a red light and glances at me. “Did you hear me? I'm sorry...”

“What?” Resigned to Ethan getting whatever he wants to say out in the open regardless of my desire to not want a bar of it, I gingerly swivel in my seat and add, “I don't know what you're on about. There's nothing to be sorry for.”

“That's where you're wrong,” he replies, his gaze sliding away from mine and settling on his hands as they rest on the steering wheel.

I shake my head and immediately wish I hadn't as it causes everything to momentarily spin. “It... It was just one of those wrong place, wrong time things,”I murmur, pulling my hands free from the sleeves of my sweatshirt in order to rub my temples. “It's not like it's your fault.”

“Actually...” Swallowing hard, Ethan puts his hand over his mouth almost as though he's going to be sick before, with a look of relief at the traffic light turning green, putting the car into gear and driving through the intersection. “Don't be so sure of it...”

Although my hearing is one of the very few things I still have going for me, Ethan's statement is nonetheless so peculiar that I have to seek clarification. “Excuse me?”

“Simon Bennett...” Trailing off, he doesn't continue and everything about him, from the paleness of his skin under his light tan to his body language, screams of discomfort.

“Yes? Simon Bennett?” What of Simon Bennett? I know, having overhead Benji sharing his findings with the others while in the infirmary, that Bennett's fingerprints were found on the note left on the car, but that's basically all I know in regards to him. What I also know however is that he's not the only Bennett to fall foul of the IMF as even when I first heard it I was sure that I'd encountered the name before.

Ethan sighs and clenches his hand far too tightly around the gear stick. “His father was Roger Bennett.”

Ah. So that explains why I recognise the name. Roger Bennett. Texan oil millionaire. Crazy as fuck fruitcake with his own militia and delusions of keeping America pure by trying to import plutonium and laying the blame for a nuclear bomb on an African American student group. His heyday was a good fifteen years ago though and if I remember correctly he didn't survive IMF's interest in him. “I thought I knew the name,” I mutter with a lacklustre shrug. “What of him though? Isn't he history?”

“You know of the case?” Ethan queries, sounding surprised.

“Analyst, remember?” I shrug again and begin to pick at the tiny strands of stray cotton hanging from the light grey stripes running the length of the arms of my sweatshirt. “I only know the bare basics though. Roger Bennett was a serious threat that needed to be neutralised.”

“Oh.” His expression hardening, Ethan grimaces and, proving that just about anything is possible, further tightens his grip on the gear stick. “He was neutralised, alright.”

My interest caught at last, I stop my aimless assault on the cotton strands and stare at Ethan. “You were there?”

“I was cornered,” he mutters with a curt nod. “Bennett wasn't going down without a fight. Once the bullets started flying there was only ever going to be one outcome.”

“So? He was a complete nut job, no great loss to the human race.”

“I killed him.” Ethan turns his head and for a fleeting, haunting second fixes his gaze on mine. “I killed Simon Bennett's father.”

The penny finally dropping, I dutifully travel down the tried and true path of stating the obvious, and murmur, “You're saying this could be revenge...”

“He knew me. Well, knew my cover, anyway,” Ethan explains dully. “I was deep inside Bennett's militia organisation for close to a month and got to know Simon pretty well. Uh... Really well, actually.”

Reading between the lines to translate this as they slept together, I brush off the sense of unease this immediately installs in me and concentrate on trying to recall more about the case. “Roger Bennett was the driving force behind the movement though, wasn't he? I don't remember any mention of a son being tied to anything.”

“That's because he wasn't,” Ethan replies. “After everything went down he took over the legitimate side of the family business and disappeared from our radar. “I...” His expression hardening, he slams his hands palm first against the steering wheel and shakes his head. “I just can't stop thinking that this... what happened... It's payback. Simon's been biding his time to get at me. He was there at the end. He saw me kill his father and this... You... This was his revenge.”

“Maybe.” Suddenly feeling bone weary, I shrug and go back to picking the cotton. “But so what? He's got a beef with IMF, possibly with you personally and possibly not, and I just happened to catch his eye. He probably would have got his sick rocks off on any agent who was unlucky enough to first cross his path. It's not your fault, Ethan, so don't even go there.”

“But...” He frowns and shakes his head. “What if he knew...”

“Knew what?” I interrupt tiredly. That we were team mates? Friends? Friends with benefits? Friends with benefits that perhaps this time last week I was seriously contemplating raising the courage to confess to being open to the idea of wanting more? Not now though, not given my current damaged state, so, you know, in hindsight it's just as well I didn't open my mouth. “If he knew enough to know we were in town he would have known I was on your team,” I continue, “But, again, so what? If you really want to travel down this path it was probably you he was after anyway.'

“And I wish he'd got me,” Ethan mutters, the pain and misguided guilt he's clearly feeling obvious in both the harsh sound of his voice and blank expression.

“Don't be stupid,” I retort, horrified at the very thought. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy, let alone someone I care deeply about and no longer want to be having any part of this conversation. “It's over. It's in the past. I get the revenge angle, but, whatever. It doesn't change anything. He may have wanted you but he got me. He could have just as easily have picked up Benji or Jane. Just... Drop it. Please. I don't want to talk about it anymore.'

Ethan sighs but, having got at least round one of what he wanted off his chest for the time being, reluctantly nods his acceptance. “Of course. Sorry. I just wanted...”

“Ethan... Please.” Dear God. What part of 'drop it' is he struggling to comprehend? He's had his say, I've listened, and now I want to move on. Surely that can't be too hard to understand.

“Sorry.”

Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against the glass of the window and, just on the off chance he's still not getting the picture from my body language, yawn broadly. I don't necessarily have a problem with any of what Ethan's just shared, but nor do I want to think about it any great detail. If what happened to me is just a case of revenge then so be it. There wouldn't be an IMF agent alive or dead who wouldn't have their very own string of sworn enemies. It's one of those things that simply comes part and parcel with what we do. All in the name of the greater good, granted, but we infiltrate, lie, destroy, abuse everything from trust to actual friendship, incarcerate and kill, so it only stands to reason that we'd make more than our fair share of enemies along the way. There's a particular Frenchman, for example, I never want the misfortune of meeting again because I know for a fact he'd like nothing more than to turn me into dog food for his Dobermans. Ethan, having been both in the field longer than I have and in far darker situations than I've been placed in, hell, it's only... logical... that he'd have a long list of people braying for his blood left in his wake.

So...

So what if Simon Bennett is one of them. Assuming he's the one who did this to me, and that's still not something we know for certain, while it's slightly... interesting... knowing why I was targeted, I can't actually find it in myself to care. He did it because Ethan knows me – perhaps he even saw us leaning too close together in the diner and put two and two together that we were... more... than just team mates – and because he wanted to get back at Ethan for killing his father. I get it. It's hardly rocket science and, what's more, it even makes sense. There are times when I swear it's revenge, not love that makes the world go round.

So...

Whatever. It's no more Ethan's fault than it's mine for choosing that exact moment to walk along the street. I don't want him feeling guilt over something he could no more control than he could the setting of the tides. It's just not worth it and, really, he's been around long enough to know it usually just ends up being counter productive. I'm not saying that I've never held a grudge or gone out of my way to get my own back, or that I'd sit idly by if anything happened to any member of the team, but at the same time I know the damage it can do, how either self-blame or the all consuming desire for revenge can simply consume you.

I'm glad that we've got a name to go on and that Ethan explained his past involvement himself but, really, that's just quite enough for me for the time being. Maybe it's a case of sticking my head-in-the-sand but at this exact point in time I really don't care. I have enough on my physical plate – and the less said about the range of side effects I have to look forward to from the course of P.E.P. the better – as it is without falling prey to my usual habit of over thinking everything. The time will no doubt come when I'll want to both know and dissect the whole damn lot but, be it blinkered of me or not, it's not now.

The sound of the car engine being turned off somehow passing me by, I don't know we've come to a stop in my driveway until Ethan reaches over and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We're here,” he murmurs, waiting until I've opened my eyes and am peering groggily at him before removing his hand and opening the car door. “Just wait there.”

“Where else am I going to go,” I mutter, the words slipping automatically off my tongue and immediately reminding me of the first time I said the exact same thing to Ethan. Very nearly drowning in the freezing and quick flowing river while bullets rained down from seemingly everywhere. Ethan, despite only having just met me and, I'm quietly confident, viewing me with great suspicion, making a point of asking if I was okay before ensuring that everywhere he went I went too. I would have drowned or been taken out by a bullet if it wasn't for Ethan and the instinctive, lightning fast way he's capable of thinking outside the box. In a way it could have been all over before it even started.

My response ringing as instant a chord with Ethan as it did with me, he turns and flashes me a sad smile before climbing out of the car. “It feels like a life time ago,” he comments, knowing that he doesn't need to elaborate, that we're already on the same page.

“That's because it was,” I murmur to myself once he's shut the door and is walking around the front of the car to open mine. 

There being nothing to be gained from either pretending to be more with it than I feel or brushing off Ethan's offer of assistance for delusional reasons of 'saving face', I let him help me out of the car and gaze impassively at the lush green manicured lawn that leads up to the front door while he collects my bag of drugs from the backseat. I have a nice home in a nice suburb. During the sixteen months I spent back in Washington after Croatia I may even have become a little – house proud – fond of it. During rare days off I indulged in the home handy man thing and even became a regular at my local hardware store. Now though, since being back in the field and not seeing it for months on end before getting to spend a whole night or two in it before jetting off again, I view it as little more than a glorified motel room. A gardener, who I pay but I'm not even entirely sure I've ever actually met, keeps it looking lived in while I'm away and I suspect he has more of vested interest in the property than I do.

“He does a good job,” Ethan states as though reading my mind as, drugs obtained and car locked, he slides his arm gently around my waist and slowly leads me up to the door.

“Probably wonders why he bothers,” I reply, limping along next to him and all but counting the seconds until I can collapse into bed.

Removing his arm from my waist in order to unlock the door, Ethan gives me a wry look and gestures me inside. “The monthly cheque would be why he bothers.”

“Mmm... You're probably right.”

Wanting to take the quickest route to the bedroom, I walk into the kitchen and am halfway through it when something stops me. It's a small thing, a completely random thing even, but I could have sworn that when Ethan picked me up for the Havana mission that I'd left dirty dishes in the sink. The mission was urgent and we had to go straight away, meaning I didn't even have time to move them into the dishwasher. Yet now the dishes are gone and the sink is clean. “Dishes,” I murmur dumbly. “I'm sure I left dishes in the sink.”

“Jane and Benji swept through this morning to make sure everything was spick and span and you didn't come home to any nasty surprises,” Ethan replies, giving me a strange look as he places the brown paper bag on the counter and begins to pull out the contents. “I think Benji felt compelled to take a photo of the extremely rare sight of Jane dusting, if you want proof.”

“They shouldn't have,” I state, meaning 'they shouldn't have gone to any trouble' yet, and I realise this even as I'm saying it, sounding like 'how dare they enter my private property without my permission'. “Uh... Sorry. I didn't mean that like it sounded.”

“They wanted to,” Ethan responds matter-of-factly as, the line of pill bottles stretching almost the length of the bench, he folds the bag into a neat square and throws it into the bin. “They're planning on coming around a little later too. If you'd prefer they...”

Unable to fight the feeling that just about anything I say at the moment is going to run the risk of coming out wrong, horribly ungratefully wrong, I cut him off with a sigh and murmur, “I appreciate everything you're all doing for me, but... I just don't want to put anyone out.”

“You're not putting anyone out and we're all only doing exactly what we want to.” Shrugging, Ethan walks across the kitchen and comes to a stop directly in front of me. He's so close that I can feel the warmth emanating from his body and my legs that were already feeling dithery suddenly feel as though they no longer want to keep me upright. “As it's what you want that matters though, I'll just ask this once and whatever the answer is I'll make sure everyone respects it. So... Do... you.. want to be on your own?”

Relieved that the question is both an easy one to answer and one that I can't possibly stuff up, I shake my head and relax against Ethan as he once again slides his arm around my waist and begins to walk me out of the kitchen. “No. No, I don't.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Sinking down on the edge of the messy, unmade bed that quite frankly I'm sick of the sight of, I bury my head in my hands and wait for the ever-present nauseas feeling to settle just long enough to allow me to crawl back under the bedding without immediately wanting to throw up again. I feel wretched and can't recall ever having felt so hideously ill before. The bruises, welts and abrasions are healing nicely and even if they weren't a steady stream of paracetamol is helping make my physical injuries the least of my problems.

The course of P.E.P., while a fabulous invention and giant leap forward in the prevention of HIV that I'm very thankful to be a recipient of, is, not to put a too fine a point on it, absolutely wiping me out. I can barely move without immediately wanting to be sick, my head throbs even when it's on my pillow and my eyes are closed, and I'm so heavy limbed and lethargic that even the short walk from bed to the en suite feels akin to a trek across the Sahara. Dr Watkins has tried to convince me that the worst of the side effects should soon be over, that my body will adapt to the cocktail of pills being pumped into it, but I'm not entirely sure I believe him. It's been four days already and, if anything, I think I feel worse. Not only do I feel constantly sick, but I'm also beginning to doubt there's even the dimmest of lights at the end of the tedious tunnel and, perhaps worse of all, I know in myself that I'm a crabby, ungrateful pain in the ass who isn't worth either the time or the care being freely offered to him. No one gives any indication of caring or holding it against me, in fact they're all very understanding and going above and beyond the call of duty, but...

And I hate this, I really do, it's like adding insult to injury, but sadly it's just not helping. The three people who have come to mean the most to me are here doing everything they can to improve my miserable lot and I'm just too sick and morose to truly appreciate it.

Benji and Jane are at least managing to make a sort of holiday out of their self-imposed baby-sitting duties and I'm glad, even if I can't show it, that they're finding a way to relax and enjoy themselves. My television and blu-ray player have never had so much concentrated use before as they work their way through re-watching their favourite movies and I don't think I've been imagining the scent of popcorn occasionally wafting in through the bedroom door. Right now, and I only know this because Benji was brave enough to poke his head into the room to ask if I was feeling up to joining them before they started, they're working their way through the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the low murmur of their chatter and laughter echoes throughout the house. Part of me wants to join them, to at least give the impression of showing signs of improvement, but even if I had it me to drag myself out of the bedroom – which I don't – it simply wouldn't be fair. Just because they're here for me doesn't mean they need a black hole of despair sitting on the sofa next to them and dragging their good mood down to his miserable level.

A cursory knock on the half-open door causing me to wearily drop my hands away from my face, I watch Ethan walk into the room and selfishly wish I'd already found the energy to crawl back into bed as that way I could have feigned sleep and avoided whatever it is that's about to come. It's not fair of me, and God knows I'm not proud of it, but having to deal with Ethan and his quiet, competent concern is just about the last thing I feel like doing. He doesn't push or ask anything of me that I'm incapable of giving, and I know that if I told him to fuck off that, with only the most fleeting of disappointed looks, he would without comment, but as with everything instead of drawing comfort from his care and attention it just... annoys me. I don't feel worthy of it, so it pisses me off.

Not that I've ever said it and now probably never will, but I love Ethan. I really do. How could I not? He means everything to me and I've never been happier than when we've been together. It's over though now, whatever it was we briefly had. It has to be. I'll recover – regardless of how bad I feel I'm not melodramatic enough to believe anything to the contrary – and I'm not even particularly worried about the results of the HIV test I'll have to take once I've finished with the P.E.P. as it's no longer the death sentence it once was, it's just... It's just that I know it has to be over, that's all.

I knew of Ethan Hunt long before I first laid eyes on him in Croatia. Everyone who's so much as heard of the IMF has heard of Ethan, the agency's best and brightest – not to mention most brilliant, tricky, deadly, cunning and determined – agent. Before the mission went so horribly pear shaped I'd wanted to meet him, to let him know how much I admired him, and then, once it had all hit the fan and I'd handed in my gun for the safe and secure confines of headquarters, I wanted to forget he even existed. I certainly never expected for fate to intervene and to end up on his team, let alone for him to get under my skin so badly and for him to mean so damn much to me.

Fate intervening again, I was with Ethan in his motel room – I can't even remember why, it had just somehow become natural to remain in each other's company in down time, a drink here and there, a light hearted chat about things of no consequence – when he received the message from Julia to say that she was closing the chapter on their life together and moving on. Accepting that they could never be together, she'd decided to join Doctors Without Borders and had fallen in love with a fellow doctor while treating a malaria outbreak in Africa. He'd been expecting it, I remember thinking, that as upset as he was that it hadn't come as a complete surprise, as I cracked open the scotch and tried to find the right words to say. I'd wanted to put my arm around him, call it human nature, an instinctive desire to want to comfort a friend who was suffering, but not wanting to appear as though I was making an unwanted advance, I controlled myself and did nothing other than offer him a drink.

It was Ethan who made the first move. Ethan, who said, “Well, there's nothing to stop me from doing this now,” as he cupped my cheek in the palm of his hand and softly kissed me. I told myself that it was simply – incredible – sex as a form of comfort and that it would be a one-off event. Only it wasn't a one-off and without either of us ever speaking about it, it kept happening. A way to wind down after yet another near-miss or successful completion of a hard fought mission. I quickly wanted more than just the sex but never allowed myself the delusion, not even when it became clear to the most casual observer that we were spending a lot of time in each other's company, of thinking I'd ever get it. Besides, it worked – in the most basic form of scratching an itch – and it was far preferable to the alternative of not having it at all.

And now, fourteen months later and without it ever having gone any further, it's over. Who knows, maybe having a definite ending will be better than having it meander along going nowhere anyway. It's something I can try to convince myself of in the months to come at any rate.

“You okay?” Ethan queries as he sits down on the bed next to me and places the bottle of water and plate containing a cut up apple that he'd been carrying on the mattress between us.

“Fine,” I reply with a listless shrug even though we both know I'm lying through my teeth. “Just finding the energy to get back into bed.”

Ethan, not surprisingly, doesn't look convinced but, as is becoming par for the course, he nonetheless pushes forward and picks up the plate. “I've brought you an apple,” he states, placing it on my lap and looking down at it expectantly. “Mom always said they were good for an upset stomach.”

“I'm not hun...”

“You've got to eat,” he interrupts as, clearly not planning on taking no for an answer, he picks up a piece of apple and holds it out towards me. “Here. At least try a couple of slices.

“Fine.” It not being something worth arguing about, I take the apple and reluctantly nibble at it. It has no discernible taste and although my stomach rolls in complaint it doesn't stage a revolt and to my relief I'm able to keep it down. “Thanks,” I mutter, dutifully taking another slice and eating it before adding, “Actually... I can't remember if I've mentioned it already, but thanks for everything. You've all been great and although I know I'm not showing it I really appreciate it, but...” I trail off, not knowing how to say it or even if I should be saying it.

“But...?” Ethan prompts, his gaze intense.

“But...” Unable to bear the weight of his blue-eyed stare, I look down at my knees and sigh. How does that saying go again? If you love someone set them free? “Just... Please don't think you have to stay with me. I know I'm not any fun to be around and... uh... if you're worried, trust me, I'm not a flight risk.” Shrugging, I decide to try to make a no doubt ill advised joke about it and add, “If it'd help or if it's what it takes to convince you, I'd even hand over my entire passport collection to you for safe keeping.”

Ethan sighs, my attempt at humour as expected having gone through to the keeper. “I've told you this already,” he replies, “and that's that everyone's where they want to be.”

“If you're worried about me, don't,” I retort, choosing to turn a deaf ear to his obvious annoyance at the way I'm clearly not letting this topic go. “I might be feeling sorry for myself, but I give you my word that I'm not a suicide risk and don't need... guarding.”

“That's not why we're here and if you weren't so focussed on pushing us away you'd know it,” Ethan responds as he gets up from the bed and crouches down in front of me. “I never, not once, thought you'd consider taking your own life,” he continues, placing his hands on my knees and looking up at me. “We're here, Will, because you're our friend, we care about you and we want to make sure you're okay.”

“You sure it's not just guilt?” The words slip out of – nowhere – my mouth before I can stop them and the effect they have on Ethan is so immediate that the apple I've just eaten churns in my stomach and I feel even sicker than I did a couple of minutes ago.

Visibly flinching as though wounded, he stands up and begins to walk towards the door. “No. It's not just guilt,” he whispers, pausing by the door to give me a sad look, “and I'm sorry that you'd even think it.”

“I...” The damage already having been carelessly done, it's too late and Ethan's left the room before I can find the voice to say it.

“I'm sorry...”

So very, very sorry.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It would be too optimistic of me to say that the fog had fully lifted and that I was feeling more like myself again, but, taking anything that I can get, I've definitely turned a corner for the better and no longer feel quite so deathly ill or exhausted. Dr Watkins was, as usual, right and my body has adapted to the invasion of the P.E.P. drugs to the point of leaving me able to function again. My head still aches and I know I'll be keeping with the diet of bland food and water for a while yet, but I can now stand without immediately wanting to throw up and no longer feel the all consuming urge to return to bed the second I've climbed out of it.

Wanting to celebrate waking up and feeling more alive than I have in over a week now, I moved on from merely acknowledging that I smelled to wanting to do something about it and have just stepped out of a long and enjoyable shower. Although I no longer need any of the bandages, my body still looks a complete mess and I made a point of paying it scant attention as I used a sponge to wash myself with. I can't hide from the injuries, and I accept that not wanting to see them for myself is an ultimately meaningless emotion, but I just can't help it. They're ugly and they remind me of an event I'm wanting desperately to forget about.

Clean, but not yet clean enough, I tie a towel tightly around my waist and brush my teeth before grabbing a razor and quickly shaving. Leaning over the basin, I splash cold water on my face and it's while I'm straightening up that I see it. On my right shoulder, bright red and inflamed looking from the heat of the shower, are the initials SB scarred into the flesh. About the size of the palm of my hand and most likely done with the tip of a knife, I have no recollection of Bennett having put his... ownership mark... on me and, suddenly feeling faint, have to hang on to the vanity unit in order to remain on my feet. The shock and... revulsion – oh dear God the fucking bastard branded me as his own personal property! – is so great that, light headed and breathing through my mouth, I blindly stagger out of the en suite and, without having any idea as to just where the hell it is I think I'm going or what it is I'm wanting to do, walk straight into Ethan as he carries an armful of clean bedding into the room.

“Will?” Throwing the sheets onto the bed, Ethan closes his hands around my upper arms and tries to get me to look at him. “What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I...” Whimpering, I break free of Ethan's hold and, stumbling backwards, crash into the wall. I don't want Ethan, poor, patient Ethan who has stood by me despite all my attempts to push him away for his own good, to see me – fracturing – like this and, shaking my head numbly, hold my arms out in front of me as though to fend him off. “S-sorry... I... I'm fine. Just... Go. Please...”

“Sure. You're fine and I'm Iron Man,” Ethan responds as, gently batting my hands away, he resumes his hold on my upper arms and effectively anchors me in place. “Come on, Will, what's up? I'm not going anywhere until you tell me, so you may as well just get it over and done with.”

“I...” Catching Ethan's gaze and seeing the lines of both sadness and exhaustion etched on his face, my tenuous grip on keeping it together gives up totally and, groaning, I just lose it. Hell, for the first time during this whole sorry mess I wave the white flag of defeat and simply lose it big time. Sliding down the wall, I hug my knees to my chest and start to sob.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I can take the pain and the feeling like shit, and I can do a damn fine job of ignoring the sexual assault, but the bastard having signed me like I was something he'd created and wanted recognition for, fuck, it's just the final fucking straw.

Following me down to the floor, Ethan takes matter into his own hands and, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, pulls me against him in a tight, enveloping embrace. For a second this merely adds to my sense of panic – as I'm struggling to breathe as it is without having my face buried into the crook of his neck – and, weakly, ineffectually, I try to fight him off. It makes no impact on Ethan though and he simply hugs me tighter.

“Hey... Hey, come on. It's okay. You're safe. Just... Shhh... Come on now, everything's okay...”

“No it's not,” I wheeze as, giving up, I close my eyes and slump against Ethan. “He... He... Bennett... The bastard, he... He branded me! Oh God, Ethan, he left his fucking mark on me and I didn't even know!”

“Shhh...” Settling himself – in for the long haul – more comfortably on the floor, Ethan begins to rub soothing circles into my back. “Don't let it get to you. A plastic surgeon will be able to easily get rid of it and... Come on, shhh... It doesn't change anything anyway. You're still you and that bastard doesn't have any hold over you...”

“He branded me!” I repeat through sobs as, unable to help myself, I clench my fingers into the fabric of Ethan's shirt. “He... He left his mark on me...” In more ways than one, but you don't need a psyche degree to work that. “And... and I hate it! I... I hate it so much...”

“Shhh... And he'll pay for it,” Ethan whispers hoarsely. “When I find him you have my word that he'll pay for it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Three days have passed since my... melt down... over discovering that – mother fucking lowlife – Bennett had carved his initials into my shoulder. Three bland and uninteresting days during which not a word has been spoken of it and the only thing that makes me know it – the hysterics, the over reaction, the crying myself to sleep in Ethan's arms and waking up alone dressed in clean pyjamas and in a freshly made bed – actually happened is a small white business card with the name of IMF's preferred plastic surgeon placed against the lamp base on the bedside table. 

I'm not complaining, as surprisingly enough it's not exactly something I want to sit down and have a heart-to-heart about – what a psychiatrist would no doubt call cathartic I simply call embarrassing and awkward – but it's just, I don't know, a little bit strange. I could bring it up myself, and admittedly both apologising and offering thanks does strike me as something I probably should do, but... Not wanting to open myself up to a conversation I'm confident neither of us want, I keep my mouth shut and just go the flow. Ethan, given that through some miracle of stubbornness I still haven't managed to scare him away yet, has had ample opportunity to bring the subject up but he, like me, seems to want nothing to do with it.

It happened. Maybe, better out than being bottled up for all eternity and all that, it was for the best. As with so many things though it's now history and never needs referring to again.

I swear it's a dance of avoidance we've both gotten down pat. Ethan lurks and puts up with my random, peculiar behaviour without comment, and I let him, also without comment. That's just how, more so than ever, it is between us. Even before this happened and I was desperately wishing I could find both the time and the words to express to him how I wouldn't be adverse to trying to make something more out of whatever it was we had, we never really, well, talked. We let off steam by fucking or going to bars, and while of course we talked it was never about anything of personal, relationship-wise consequence. I suspect I know more about his childhood growing up on the farm than anyone else in IMF does, and I know he's the only one I've ever told about once harbouring a dream to play professional baseball. In our own ways, as Ethan's proven this week, we're there for each other, but we're not...

Normal. We're not normal and perhaps never will be. What we do isn't normal. The constant threats to our lives isn't normal. The way we view the world isn't normal. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, isn't normal.

I still want more. I'll probably always, despite what I've come to accept has to happen, want more, but something has got to give. I can't go on like this and it's not fair on Ethan to expect him to either. Not, however, that I'm laying all the blame squarely at my feet. It takes two to tango as the saying goes and Ethan has as much control over what's happening – or isn't happening, as the case actually is – as I do. He could speak up as easily as I could. I know the reasons for my silence though and wonder if he's spared the reasons for his so much as a second's thought. Maybe all I am to him is a good fuck and adequate team mate, someone to be gotten back up on his feet again simply so as to maintain the status quo.

Choking back a sigh, I take a sip of cold coffee and return my attention to reading the newspaper spread open on the table in front of me. Although my head is still a mess of jumbled, confusing thoughts I'm feeling better every day and can now manage to spend more time out of bed than needing to be in it and two whole glorious days have passed since I last threw up or had to run the risk of overdosing on painkillers in order to at the very least take the edge off the thudding headache. I even, to both Jane and Benji's amazement – if not vague disappointment as it meant they had to explain all the in jokes they were snickering at to me instead of just sharing a knowing look and laughing – managed to join them in the living room to watch The Empire Strikes Back yesterday. Most of the movie went straight over my head, but I was still pleased at having made the effort to 'join in'. Small steps, let's face it, are after all better than either no steps or going backwards.

The sound of a laptop being slammed shut far too forcefully causing me to look up from the paper, I glance across the table at Ethan and find him scowling down at the computer with a clearly annoyed expression on his face. Noticing my eyes on him, he smiles – dismissively – lightly and, picking up his empty cup, makes to stand up. 

The damage – what's happened to piss him off? – having already been done and my curiosity piqued though, I quickly decide to not let the moment pass and ask, “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing my cup before I can protest and dumping both it and his on the sink. “Everything's fine.”

“Mmm... And I might believe it too if I hadn't seen your expression when you shut the laptop.” I don't know why, but I have no intention of letting this go. It's not what we should be talking about, but it's still something that I want to see through to the end.

“It's nothing.” Running his fingers through his hair, Ethan leans his back against the sink and, noticing that I'm still staring at him, sighs. “Okay. Fine,” he capitulates, still scowling. “It was an email from the Secretary asking... no, demanding... a sooner rather than later return date for the team. I've already told him that it won't be until you've fully recovered, so I don't know why he's still pushing for a damn date.”

Seizing on Ethan's response as an unexpected but – never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it's one you weren't exactly fully ready for yet – useful opening, I shrug. “If he's wanting the team for a specific mission then just go,” I respond. “You're clearly needed and if I'm your only excuse for holding off on going back in I'm here to tell you now that...” Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for what's about to happen next, and quietly add, “I'm not going back in, Ethan. I've decided to return to HQ and the role of analyst and won't be joining you back in the field.”

“What?” His scowl intensifying, Ethan glares at me and shakes his head. “Don't be stupid. Of course you're returning to the team.”

“No. I won't be.” It's something I've been mulling over the past few days and whether it's the right one or not I made my final decision this morning. A clean break in preference to things lingering on as they have been indefinitely. It was fun while it lasted, and I know I'll miss it with an ache akin to the worst of the headaches, but it just has to be done. The Secretary would no doubt put me on another team or perhaps even assign me my own, but that's not what I want. I don't want new people around me and just want to slink quietly back into my old life and take it from there.

“Will!” Ethan exclaims, already sounding exasperated with my out of left field stupidity. “What are you talking about? I know things haven't been great, but...”

“I'm sorry, Ethan,” I interrupt, knowing that I have to stand firm and not be persuaded by Ethan's innate ability to turns things around in order to get his own way. I've seen it in action more times than I care to recall and, having even been on the receiving end of it myself I know just how effective it is, but not this time. I can't allow it to work this time. “But I've made my mind up and I won't be returning to field work. I... I just don't feel up to it anymore.”

“You're still recovering. Give it a couple more weeks and you'll be back to normal.” Pausing, Ethan looks at me closely before, as though an unwanted thought has just entered his head, frowning. “If you're worried about it happening again...”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” I interject with a quick shake of my head and a grim smile. “Listen, Ethan, I can cope with the threat of falling prey to some crazy fucker more than I can cope with knowing that, essentially, I let this happen. I wasn't paying enough attention to my surroundings and this is the result. Now...”

“Will...”

“Please. Just listen. Maybe my confidence is just dinted or maybe it's a wake-up call we'd all do well to heed. Either way, I've made the decision to leave field work and return to just being an analyst as I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's safety. My own, I can live with, but not anyone else's. I don't want to be responsible for letting you down, Ethan, or Jane or Benji, and that's just all there is to it. My mind is made up.”

“That's a cop out. You're just falling on your sword again instead of facing up to...”

“Maybe.” I cut Ethan off again because I know where he's going, where I'd probably go too if I was on his side of the fence, and not wanting things to get uglier or more argumentative than they already are. “But it's my decision, one that I've made with the well being of others in mind, and it's one that I won't be swayed on. I'm sorry, you may not believe me and may just think I'm little more than a coward or wimp, but I really am sorry for throwing your team in to disarray and want you to know that I've actually enjoyed every minute we've spent working together. I... I'm proud of having been...”

“Save it for someone who actually believes you mean it,” Ethan snaps as, suddenly having had enough, he snatches up his car keys from the end of the bench and storms out of the kitchen. He doesn't look back and I already can't help but wonder if it's the last time I'll ever see him.

“That's just it, I do mean it,” I whisper, glancing down at my hands and noticing, even though I can't feel it, that they're trembling. I hadn't, although it seems that I have, wanted to hurt Ethan and know that if I'm going to remain strong and see this through that I have to get up and phone the Secretary straight away to inform him of my intentions. If I don't and I'm still dithering when Jane and Benji invariably try their luck at talking me out of it there's every chance that I never will, so...

I'll make the call. I have to.

When my hands stop shaking and my heart stops trying to pound through my chest, I'll call the Secretary and begin the lonely, self-imposed task of moving on.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Stepping through the door into the large, airy space that IMF's core group of analysts get to call their own, I survey the familiar layout of desks before me and quickly deduce that very little, if indeed anything, has changed since I was last here. Bradley Smith's Hello Kitty collection – a running joke picked up by just about everyone in the IMF after his Japanese wife packed his lunch in a Hello Kitty lunch box one day – has grown to include a hot pink office chair, which is certainly different and as I admire it I can't help but wonder who the enterprising person was who managed to get it back here for him. Monica Freeman's desk looks, as always, like a tornado has swept through it. Paper, dirty cups, open books and at least four pairs of glasses litter every available surface and her partition wall is in danger of collapsing from under the weight of all the photographs pinned higgledy-piggledy to it. Pausing to check to see if there's any new additions to the photos, I have to smile in fond bemusement when I note that for every one picture of each of her two sons there's five each of her three dogs and four each of her four cats. Her husband, despite their marriage being perhaps the happiest I've ever encountered, isn't even in the background of any of them. I suspect that if I mentioned it to Monica, who's as brilliant as she is absent minded, that she wouldn't have realised he was missing and would have simply thought that as there were so many photos that he'd just have to be in one of them somewhere. 

Although the – steady drip of information never taking a break – analysts man the office 24/7 it's still early enough in the morning for the night shift to be fortifying themselves with one last cup of coffee in the kitchen before braving the drive home and for the day shift to be still badge showing, card swiping, iris scanning and pin number entering their way up the floor. I deliberately chose to arrive at this in-between time so I could sneak into my office against the far wall without having to stop and talk to everyone on my way through. It's not that I don't like most of them, as with one notable exception I do, more that it would be a performance I'm just not entirely sure I currently have in me. I won't be able to avoid them when they arrive, hopefully one by one, in my doorway to say hello and check out for themselves just how wrecked I actually look, but at least that will be slightly more private and I can always pretend that something stupendously important has popped up on my computer monitor and that as it takes priority we'll just have to continue the conversation later.

Not having anything better to do with my time the past two days, I've thought of everything. Getting in early not only negates the risk of being the centre of attention but it also, and why try to sugar coat it, gave me a reason to do something other than mooch around the house feeling sorry for myself. I may not feel my best – although I'm not even sure I know what that would feel like anymore – but nor do I completely feel like death warmed up, and I'm not regretting my decision to return to office-based work. It was, after all, my decision to make and it's one that I honestly feel is for the best. Jane and Benji, as expected, tried their best to talk me out of it, but when it became clear to them that they couldn't get through to me they gracefully gave up, hugged me, and left with the promise that they'd be waiting for me to come to my senses and change my mind. Ethan, however...

Let's just say I think I ceased to exist in his mind the second he stalked out of my kitchen and leave it at that. I've not seen him since then, the other two looked uncomfortable at the mere mention of his name, and...

Whatever. If this is the bed I'd made for myself then so be it. It's far from the ending I would have liked, but it's the ending I've got and I just have to make the most of it. The Secretary was more than happy to hand the position of Chief Analyst back over to me, Jane and Benji seemed happy to keep in touch, and Ethan...

Ethan can go fuck himself. I have enough going on in my miserable excuse for a life without thoughts of him looming over every waking moment. There's the HIV test in a bit over a fortnight, there's that prick Bennett's initials to get off my shoulder, there's getting my head back around being an analyst again, there's... just moving on in general. It's far from the most original idea I've ever had, but I plan to throw myself into work and just... stay there. If I'm concentrating on work I won't have to dwell on the 'what could have beens' and that's my answer to a coping mechanism. I'll think about all the world's security problems instead of my own.

Realising that time is becoming of the essence and that if I'm not careful I'll be caught out standing in the middle of the office like a stunned mullet, I move away from Monica's desk and start to walk across the floor to my office. Nearing it, I catch sight of Frederick Carlson's desk and am too slow to stop the knee-jerk reaction of wrinkling my nose in instantly remembered distaste and dislike. 

Carlson, and really there are no two ways of looking at it, is, as my grandmother used to say, a bad egg. Even if you were capable of overlooking his unfortunate appearance – think Steve Buscemi, only with Stallone's muscles and David Caruso's hair – and his abrupt, grating personality, you still wouldn't be able to escape the fact there's just something... off... about him. He's brilliant at what he does, and I wouldn't hesitate for a second to say he's a better analyst than I am, but he'll be forever stuck in the middle of the pack instead of climbing up the ladder because of the sort of person he is, and that's bitter, rude, arrogant and totally without a self-censoring chip. Wanting to reward his brilliance, the Secretary once took him along to a Heads of State meeting and instead of biting his tongue when the British representative dared to question the Secretary's opinion on something Carlson just launched a verbal attack on the man that saw him having to be escorted from the conference room. There's also the massive chip on his shoulder that's as a result of knowing he's never going to be considered for – his Holy Grail – field work. I haven't read his psych evaluation myself, but I know there's something in it that states in no uncertain terms he's never to be let out in the field which is cause for considerable concern just in itself. Nobody likes him and the thing is I honestly don't think he cares, that the opinions of anyone other than himself and the Secretary – oh, and definitely Ethan as well – matter a single, solitary damn.

Ethan, and there was a time in the not too distant past that I used to tease him about it, is Carlson's number one, all time favourite hero. He embodies everything Carlson wishes he was and – possibly even acknowledges he'll never be, although I wouldn't want to bet anything on him being quite so self-aware – the only personal item, even though calling it that is a bit of stretch, the analyst has on his desk is framed photo of Ethan shaking the hand of the President of the United States. It's a photo that I know for a fact Ethan himself doesn't have – or even wants – a copy of and nobody knows where Carlson got it from. Like most people, Ethan – who can charm the pants off the most despotic dictator or have a sadistic warlord eating out of the palm of his hand – can't stand Carlson and has never made so much as the smallest of attempts to hide it. Carlson doesn't get it though, or if he does he ignores it, and whenever they meet he makes a fool of himself with his fannish, ass kissing behaviour. 

Unsurprisingly, I think it's fairly safe to say that Carlson pretty much hates my guts – he's subordinate to my position and I actually worked with his hero, so, hell if those two things don't make me his very own personal version of public enemy number one then I don't know what would – and I'm not looking forward to once again having to deal with him on a daily basis.

Biting back a sigh, I walk into my office and turn the light on. Like the rest of the floor it's hardly changed since I left it eighteen months ago. The computer monitor is larger and the grey leather chair is now a black leather chair, but apart from that it looks exactly the same. Not knowing whether to be relieved by this or dismayed, I take my coat off, place it on the rack by the door and sit down at my desk. Switching the computer on in order to begin what is once again going to be my traditional morning trawl of the world's online newspapers, I glance around for a notepad and pen and in doing so note that the desk's bottom drawer is slightly pulled out. Reaching down to shut it, I notice there's something inside the drawer and pull it further out to get a better look. To my surprise I discover that not only has someone placed a mug in my drawer but that there's also something inside it.

Picking the mug up, I place it on the desk and, for the first time in a fortnight or so, laugh. Plain black and with the word 'HELPER' emblazoned across it in white print, as mugs go it's unlikely to win any style awards, but I love it and know immediately who I have to thank for it. Still snickering to myself, I reach inside the mug and although I wouldn't even have thought it possible what I pull out touches me even more than the obvious sentiment behind the mug did. A snow – or in this case, sand – globe containing a tiny representation of the world's tallest building in Dubai, the Burj Khalifa. As professional looking as the snow globe is though – as in I could easily see it being sold in the airport as a piece of last minute tourist tat – I know that it's been made especially for me by the tiny black dot clinging to the side of the building (a permanent representation, if you like, of one of the most terrifying events I've ever witnessed) and make a mental note to ask Benji the next time I see him just how the hell he managed to make it.

My day suddenly seeming brighter than it did only a few moments ago, I carefully place the snow globe in front of my monitor and am still smiling to myself when I sense the arrival of someone in my doorway. Looking up, the 'good morning' I'd been about to give dies on my lips when I see that it's Carlson leaning against the doorframe and glaring at me as though I alone am responsible for everything that's wrong in the world.

“Carlson.” Refusing to let him get to me, I meet his gaze and nod a greeting. “Nice to see you again.”

“I knew you'd be back,” he responds blandly, choosing to ignore my attempt at social niceties and, as is his less than charming way, getting straight to the point. “You're just not cut out for field work, Brandt, and should have accepted that last time you freaked out instead of wasting everyone's time by pretending otherwise.”

His piece said, he wastes a few precious seconds on sneering down his nose at me before spinning on his heels and disappearing. Shocked, even though I don't even know why, by his open hostility, I stare at the empty doorway and am still trying to convince myself to go after him, to call him back into my office and – start as though I intend to go on – stamp my authority on him by tearing him a new one, when Smith pokes his head through the door and waves a particularly pink Hello Kitty mug at me.

“Hey,” he grins, “I thought I saw your car in the car park. Couldn't sleep for the excitement at coming back to this place, huh?”

“Something like that,” I reply as, returning his smile, I pick up my new cup and stand up. “I hope you're here to tell me that there's a new coffee machine in the kitchen and that we're not still having to drink that instant sludge.”

“No such luck,” Smith retorts, waiting until I've joined him outside the office before pulling a face and tilting his head in Carlson's direction. “As I gather you've already had it brought home to you that he's still an asshole, some things just never change. Come on though, I'll show you where we hide the good stuff.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Come on, Brandt, spill. You thinking about returning to the field or what?”

Giving up on tying my shoelace in peace and quiet for the time being, I jerk my head up and find myself coming under the distinctly appraising gaze of Malcolm Phillips, IMF's chief fitness instructor. An ex-marine still sporting the military issue buzz cut, physique and lung capacity to make himself heard all the way across the obstacle course, Phillips is a big man with an even bigger presence. If he likes you his bark is worse than his bite. If he doesn't like you it's because he knows you're not cut out for field work and that you may as well stop wasting everyone's time before you just get yourself killed. Respecting his abilities, I get on as well with him as anyone is capable of and consider myself lucky for it.

“Nope.” I shrug and go back to lacing my Nike's. “Just training for next year's Cherry Blossom Run,” I continue, the – lie – cover story I've been using on anyone who dares ask why I've been spending so much time in the gym or on the track rolling smoothly off my tongue.

“Run it?” Phillips exclaims with a snort of disbelief. “I've had my eye on you, Brandt, and you wouldn't just run it you'd damn well lap it.”

“Well, you know what they say, you can never be too fit.” My shoes laced I straighten up and calmly look Phillips in the eye. “Believe me when I say I have no intention of putting my hand up to return to field work and am just exercising to keep fit.”

“The work you've been putting in on the firing range, that's exemplary too.”

“Come on, Phillips, I've sure you've got better things to do with your time than keep track of what I'm up to.”

“I keep track of all agents who use my equipment.”

“I'm an analyst, not an agent.”

“Don't be smart with me, Brandt. I came over to ask you a question, not to have you get all pissy on me.”

“Sorry.” I sigh and flash him an apologetic smile. “I use the range as a way to let off steam, okay. That's all.”

“Yeah, well it's a waste is all I'm saying,” Phillips mutters as he turns around and begins to walk off. “Damn shame someone with your skills chooses to hide behind a desk.”

Settling on just thinking 'yeah, well, if I wanted your advice I would have asked for it' instead of saying it, I wait until Phillips has left the change room before picking up my work shoes and placing them in my locker. The reason I run, punch, peddle, shoot and sweat at every given opportunity is because...

Well, it's simply because it's something to do and if I keep at it long enough I exhaust myself enough to be able to sleep at night. My life has turned into a mind numbing routine that offers me everything I've convinced myself I require. If I'm not in the office or attending any old meeting that I can score an invite to, I'm working out until I can barely put one foot after the other anymore before reluctantly going home and passing out in front of one of the seemingly never-ending collection of movies left behind by Benji. Phillips is right. I'm fitter than I've ever been and all the hours I've put in on the range have improved my shooting no end. I'm not doing it so I can run faster or have a more deadly trigger finger though. No. I'm just doing it because I can, and because keeping active is better than sitting at home dwelling on what I've lost. Every day is the same. Work, work out, pass out. It's either that or take up drinking and I'm miserable enough as it is without throwing hangovers into the mix as well.

Close to four months have passed since I all too successfully chased Ethan out of my life. I haven't heard from him even once during this time and although Jane and Benji keep in contact during their fleeting forays through Washington they're always noncommittal when I ask about how Ethan's going. Probably feeling a little as though they're the children in the middle of an ugly break up, I don't blame them and, knowing that I hardly have the right, never push them on it. Although I have the power, both as an analyst and as a trusted ally of the Secretary, to track every move of both Ethan and his team, I deliberately don't and always excuse myself if the mission he's working on is brought up in my presence. Not only would I run the risk of being accused of favouritism if I interfered in any of Ethan's missions – and I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't if I got wind that something had gone, or was going to go wrong – but I also steer clear of knowing what he's doing because it's just better for my flaky at best mental health that way. 

Wanting, no, needing to take each day as it comes without ever looking back, I haven't even made any attempts to locate Simon Bennett and, despite not having found the time to see the plastic surgeon to get his initials off my shoulder and the possibly terminal lack of interest I now have in sex, just want to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie. It's all very blinkered of me, and I'm not quite delusional enough to think it's not going to come crashing down around my ears when I least expect it, but it's working well enough for the time being and at the end of the day I don't have it in me to do anything to change it.

I'm alive, the HIV test came back negative, meaning the malaise Bennett infected me with isn't a death sentence, and while my life would hardly inspire jealousy in anyone in their right mind, I know it could still be worse.

Slamming my locker shut, I eschew warming up in favour of just getting out of here and hitting the track and head out of the change room. It clearly not being my afternoon to go about my business unnoticed, Carlson – wearing a truly ill advised pair of silver Lycra bike shorts and one of those heart monitor vest things around his chest that has the unfortunate ability to look like a woman's crop-top from a distance – walks through the door just as I'm about to exit it and, of course, he just can't stop himself from passing comment.

“I don't know why you bother, I really don't. You could run faster than Bolt but given your history of losing the plot, no one would want you on their team anyway.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~

“How many times do I have to say it,” I mutter, not looking up from the sea of screens – laptop, iPad, desktop – spread out on the desk in front of me and waving dismissively at the unwanted intruder standing in my doorway. Rumours of something big coming out of the Middle East have been growing at a great rate this week and, just call it my current obsession, I've been trying to get to the bottom of them like a man possessed. “I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Will...”

The beyond unexpected sound of Benji's voice in my office causing an ominous feeling to settle over me, I glance over at him and, the Middle East slipping immediately from my radar, seriously wish that I hadn't. His skin is so pale that it makes his usual pasty English pallor look suntanned and his expression is so clearly agitated and worried that I just know I'm not going to like whatever it is he's here to tell me. “Benji...” Oh dear God, I don't want to ask this but know that I have to. “Don't tell me some...”

“It's Ethan,” Benji interrupts breathlessly as he hurries around the desk and grabs my arm. “Will...”

Shaking off his hold, I jump to my feet and, wanting to take charge in order to get to the bottom of things as quickly and as sensibly as possible, manhandle Benji down into my chair. “Benji! Look at me,” I command, crouching down and closing my hands tightly around his knees so that he'll have to rethink any plans of getting to his feet because he'd only knock me over in the process. “Just... Calm down and tell me what's going on.”

“No! We've got to go,” he exclaims, his eyes darting from his watch to the door and back again as he makes to stand up. “I... I'll tell you on the way.”

“No. You won't,” I retort, pressing down harder on his knees and preparing to stand up and slam him back in the chair if he makes any further attempt to escape. I get the logic of explaining on the go but, just call it the analyst in me, I need to know what's going on before I make a move. “You'll tell me now because it'll be quicker. Ethan, yes? You're here because something has happened to Ethan?”

“He... Oh shit, Will...” Breathing deeply, Benji slumps into the chair and slowly nods. “You're right. This will be quicker. It's Bennett. He surfaced in Dallas and Ethan went over him.”

“Fuck!” I should have known I should have fucking known Ethan wouldn't have let the issue of Bennett drop. Regardless of how things ended between us, what Bennett did and their past history would have hung over his head until the time came, the time he'd have been waiting and planning for, when he could do something about it once and for all. Standing up, I lean against the desk and rub my hands over my face. “Is he dead? Benji, if he's dead I want you to just come out and say it.”

“We don't know,” Benji replies, rolling the chair around in order to better face me. “Ethan was monitoring for signs of Bennett reappearing and, well, because I knew he'd be doing it I was doing it too. You know, so I could get the jump on him or at the very least know when there was a good chance that he was going to go off by himself and do something stupid.”

“And...? That's what happened?”

“Not exactly. We both noticed that Bennett had popped up in Texas at the same time and Jane and I caught Ethan as he was about to slip off. He wasn't pleased at being caught, as I'm sure you can imagine, but in the end he promised to check in every two hours if we promised to step back and just let him go.”

“And he hasn't checked in?”

Benji nods and grimaces. “Not for the past ten hours.”

“Shit!” Spinning around, I kick the desk and stare up at the ceiling in a futile attempt to calm myself down. “What do you think has happened?”

“We don't know. That's why we're on our way to Dallas. Jane didn't want me to bother you, in fact she tried to talk me out of coming, but, I'm sorry, Will, I just thought that I had to, that... That you'd know what to do...”

“Why?” I query, reluctantly returning my gaze to Benji and hating the hopeful look I can see gleaming in his eyes. “Why come to me, Benji, huh? What am I supposed to do? I'm not a field agent.”

“You weren't a field agent when you helped us save the world in Dubai and Mumbai either,” Benji replies as he stands up and fixes me with a wounded, disappointed look that I know I deserve but which still manages to make me feel like a complete lowlife. “Will... Please. You're still the most senior field agent I can turn to and...” His eyes flashing with emotion, Benji suddenly jabs his finger into my chest and glares at me. “For God's sake! This is Ethan we're talking about. Ethan! Not only would he do anything for any of us but you know the only reason he went after Bennett was because of what he did to you as much as we do and the least you could bloody well do is pull your head out of your arse long enough to do what you can to help him!”

“Benji...” Sighing heavily, I rub my temples and knowing that I have to, that there was only ever one action available to me the second Benji landed in my doorway, slowly nod. “Of course... I'll do whatever I can.”

Of course I'll help. Of course I'll do whatever I can to bring Ethan back in one piece. Of course the adrenaline is already starting to surge through my veins and of course I'll not be able to think straight until this is over. So of course it's game on like the last five months never even took place.

I mean, seriously, what other option do I have open to me? I may not share the faith Benji obviously has in me but I could no more turn my back on him than I could flap my arms and fly. Even if I could somehow chase him out the door and on his way I'd be no use to anyone until I knew that Ethan was okay – or, God forbid, dead – anyway. Hell, all the hard work I've put in to living in denial is crashing down around me as it is, so if I was to just sit here chewing my fingernails while Jane and Benji tore apart Dallas my head would probably just explode from the anxiety of it all. And, really, what would that achieve? I may as well just throw myself back into the thick of things and hope for the best.

“I knew I could count on you!” Beaming with relief, Benji grabs my arm and tries to pull me towards the door. “Come on, we've got to get going. Jane's already on her way to the airport.”

Shaking my arm free of Benji's hold, I snatch up the iPad from my desk and start quickly accessing information on it as he picks my coat up from the rack and waves it at me impatiently. “Will! Come on! If we miss the flight Jane will be in Dallas on her own and...”

“Call her and tell her that there's been a change of plans,” I mutter, cutting Benji off as the information on the screen confirms what I'd been hoping for. “Tell her to turn around and meet us at the airfield,” I add, grabbing my coat from Benji and gesturing him out of the door in front of him.

“We're taking a jet?” Benji queries doubtfully as, giving me an anxious look, he hesitates over moving. “Will? Are you sure?”

I nod and, noticing that Carlson's looking over at us from his desk with an expression of curiosity written all over his face, smile balefully. “Hey, I've always maintained that if you're going to be disavowed that you may as well do a good job of it.”

Grinning, Benji pulls the door shut and side by side we stride through the office towards the elevator. “Can analysts even be disavowed?”

“We're probably about to find out,” I reply with an unbothered shrug as being disavowed is, after all, by far the least of my current problems. “If they can though I can't think of a better reason for it, can you?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Okay...” Drumming my fingers with increasing impatience onto the tabletop, I wait until Jane has got herself a bottle of water from the bar fridge at the rear of the plane and returned to her seat at the table before continuing. “So, starting from the beginning...”

Glancing up from behind his ever-present laptop screen, Benji frowns and shakes his head. “I told you everything while we waited for Jane.”

“Maybe you did,” I reply, fixing him with a no nonsense look that, if things are to remain civil and not deteriorate into a screaming mess he'd do well to heed. We're all worried, Jane's tetchy on top of being worried because she didn't want me to know Ethan was missing, let alone be drawn into it, and everyone's probably only one small step away from losing it. So... Same old, same old as missions go. It's almost reassuring how some things just never seem to change. “But let's pretend I wasn't listening and...”

“Ha! I knew it!” Benji exclaims, his eyes widening in dismay. “You're worried about the jet. You weren't listening because you're worried about commandeering...”

“Trust me. I'm not worried about commandeering the jet,” I interrupt as, taking up where I left off, Jane sighs and begins to drum her fingers on the table. “I don't care about the jet. While I'm at it I don't care about the threat of being disavowed and nor do I care whether I've pissed the Secretary off. We're in the air now, we've got close to two hours before we land in Dallas and, unless either of you have a plan that you'd like to amaze me with, I would like to know the whole damn story from the beginning!”

“But...”

“Nuh-uh, Benji, no buts. Hit me with a plan or explain to me in the simplest of terms what the story is.”

“Plan?” Jane interjects, looking across the table at me as though I'd just asked the most amazingly stupid question she'd ever had the misfortune of hearing. “We hit Dallas and tear it apart until we find him.”

Oh yeah. High emotion and heading into the unknown. There's just nothing fucking like it. It can take the calmest and most sensible of agents and turn them into the Terminator in a heartbeat. I get it, hell, I'm most likely feeling it the worst of all, but it doesn't help and as hard as it is everyone just has to take a step back from the fact it's Ethan who is missing and look at things objectively. Personally, I'm all for Jane's plan. It's simple, to the point, and I already feel wound so tight that lashing out at the first questionable person to cross my path sounds like a great idea. It wouldn't achieve anything though and Jane, even if she's not going to admit it, knows this as well as I do.

“Some plan,” I mutter, glancing pointedly at my watch. “While I'm as clear on it as I'm ever likely to be, we've still got two hours to kill before the tearing apart can start so, please, humour me and bring me up to speed from the beginning.”

“Uh...” Torn between placating me and siding with Jane who's his best friend and staunchest ally, Benji returns his attention to his computer and taps away at the keyboard for a few seconds before, his decision made, sighing heavily. “Jane... Will's right, it wouldn't hurt to... uh... lay everything out and look at it from a different angle. Maybe something will show up that we've missed.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Affecting an award winning expression of disinterest – I suspect to hide the embarrassment of her earlier bravado – Jane leans back in her seat and busies herself with toying with the paper label around her water bottle. “Go on then. Tell him. Having heard it all before though, don't mind me if I don't participate.”

“Uh...”

“It's okay, Benji.” Taking pity on him and his perceived predicament, I force myself to flash him a reassuring smile. “Just tell me everything you know and if nothing pops up we'll move on to choosing where we want to start our attack on a poor, unsuspecting Dallas.”

No doubt mentally waving the white flag of defeat, Benji nods and lowers his screen so he can better give me his attention. “Okay. Even though I told you all of this before take-off, Bennett, after quite literally disappearing off the face of the earth after Havana, suddenly reappeared in Dallas the day before yesterday. Knowing that Ethan would have been tracking him, just waiting for him to surface again, I'd been doing my own monitoring and it's only because of this that we were able to corner Ethan before he just went off after him himself.”

“You offered to go along?” I query, not because I need to hear the confirmation – as of course they offered – for myself but because I want to show to Benji that this time I really am listening and not just quietly panicking in my head like I was during the short drive to the airfield.

“Of course we damn well offered to go with him,” Jane states sullenly as she stops her assault on the paper label just long enough to give me another narrow-eyed – 'and just how dumb has five months of sitting on your ass made you?' – look. “He wouldn't have a bar of it though. Said that it was a one person job and our time would be better spent resting up before our next mission.”

“We tried to talk him out of it,” Benji continues, “but you know Ethan. His mind was made up and even if we had insisted on tagging along he would have just lost us somewhere along the way. In the end we decided to take his promise of checking in every two hours as better than nothing and reluctantly left him to it.”

“And his plan? Do you know what he was planning to do?”

“Capture Bennett and bring him in, I suppose,” Benji offers, sharing a look with Jane. “He wasn't really clear on the specifics of what he was going to do when he found him.”

“Okay.” Not entirely sure I really want to know what Ethan was going to do to Bennett anyway, I decide to put the subject to one side and push on. “So... Let's say by the time we land it's been around fourteen hours since he last checked in with you. Do you know what he'd been about to do before losing contact?”

“Mmm... Sort of.” Benji pushes back the screen of his laptop and quickly looks up something on it. “He'd tracked Bennett to an address on the outskirts of Dallas and was planning on casing the place before deciding on his next move.”

“And that was the last you heard from him?”

“Uh-huh. He said he'd check in with us either way. You know, if Bennett was there and he was going in, he'd let us know, or he'd let us know if he was planning on returning at a later time or even if he'd found no sign of him and it was back to the drawing board.”

“He had no form of tracking on him?” I ask this even though, again, I know the answer. Ethan firmly believes in the beneficial use of tracking devices. That is, however when placed on anything other than himself.

“Only his phone, and whatever happened to it was so permanent that I can't even access it remotely.”

“Okay. The last thing you heard was that he was heading to an address on the outskirts of Dallas. So... What do we know about the address?”

“It used to be part of the Bennett family property portfolio.”

“Used?”

“Mmm... Bennett's broke. He sold out his shares in the family business to the board and would be lucky to own the clothes on his back. The board assumed ownership of the property late last year and Bennett appears to be squatting there while it's up for sale.”

“He's broke?”

“Yep. Up until late last year he'd been keeping it together and doing his bit in keeping the business going in the wake of his father going bonkers and being taken out by IMF. Things then went completely crap for some reason and it seems that he's been on a downhill spiral ever since.”

“Do we know why?”

Benji nods and taps his finger against the computer screen. “Uh-huh. Drugs, what else? Bennett's a meth head. The business was going through a rough patch during the Global Financial Crisis and it looks like it all got too much for him and he turned to methamphetamine to help get him through.”

I groan. “Great. So not only is he off his head on meth but he's also most likely got an unhealthy dose of paranoia going on as well.”

“Mmm... So he's unpredictable.”

“Very. And given that we know he knows of IMF and our interest in him, he may well have been expecting Ethan...”

“Not to mention he'll most likely be expecting us to come for him,” Jane pipes up. “If he's delusional and paranoid there's no reason not to assume him capable of booby trapping the property.”

“Thanks for that,” I retort drily. “This just keeps getting better and better. Now... Is there anything else I should know?”

“Other than Bennett being a broke, paranoid meth head who we think has Ethan?” Benji replies. “No. I think you've got it all.”

“Are you sure?” I query, giving Benji a hopeful look. “His name hasn't popped up anywhere else? If he's addicted to meth it almost stands to reason that he'd have had a run in with the law somewhere along the line.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Benji responds, busying himself with tapping away at the keyboard until, locating whatever it was he was looking for, glancing up at me and smiling triumphantly. “Ha! I knew I'd seen his name mentioned somewhere completely random.”

“Mmm... And?”

“The number one suppliers of methamphetamines in Dallas are the Bandidos motorcycle gang, yeah, and it looks like Bennett's in debt to them to the tune of close to forty grand,” Benji states somewhat cryptically as he quickly scans the information on screen in search of relevant snippets to share. “And, before you ask, I know this because after months of preparation the FBI raided the Bandidos yesterday and seized all of their records. Now, and maybe it's just me but I find this fascinating, the tough nut biker gang keep meticulous records of all their drug deals and Bennett's been going to them to get his fix ever since last year.”

“The Bandidos, huh?” An idea, not necessarily the best one I've ever had but still an idea nonetheless, forming in response to everything Benji's just said, I catch his eye and nod. “I bet the mad bastards wouldn't be too happy at having been raided by the FBI.”

“Not happy?” Benji mutters, pulling a face. “Try beyond ropeable. Their leader, the charmingly named Snake, is currently behind bars and along with their records the FBI seized a great haul of cash, drugs and weapons. I would think they'd just be spoiling for a fight.”

“So let's give them one,” I reply, Benji's perfect lead in being too good an opportunity to miss. Sure I could, and probably should, apply a little more thought to this harebrained idea, but... What the hell. It's just crazy enough that it may very well work.

“Huh? What on earth are you talking about?” Benji asks, giving me a dubious look, as though he now thinks I'm as mad as Jane does. “You want us to take on the Bandidos? What good is that going to do Ethan?”

“Of course I don't want us to take on the Bandidos,” I respond with a dry laugh. “I may well be mad but I'm not that stupid. No... What I'm thinking is that we... avail... ourselves to the fact the Bandidos are salivating at the bit to go on a rampage and set them onto Bennett's trail. A fake deposit of, say, fifty grand into his bank account that can be linked back to the FBI, followed by an email or text message pointing them in the right direction should hopefully do it. Seeing red over this, they'll roar up to his doorstep and provide the diversion we need to sneak in to look around for Ethan. If Bennett's laid any traps they'll hit them before we will and, yeah... It's just an idea of course, but...”

Her mood suddenly visibly lifting, Jane claps her hands together and grins. “Apart from the fact they'll probably kill the bastard before I can get my hands on him, I like it. It's just crazy enough that I'm sure Ethan would approve of it too.”

“Jane...” Almost looking relieved that he's got something to focus on other than thinking I may well have just flipped out once and for all, Benji shoots her a disapproving look and gives a quick shake of his head. “I don't know if Bennett's death is the goal we should be...”

“Of course his death is the goal we're after,” she interrupts flatly as she meets Benji's gaze and coldly out stares him. “As much as I'd like to feed him his balls himself I'll settle for a big hairy Bandido doing it for me. Just... Fuck! Admit it, Benji, you're as sick of the bastard fucking over the team as...” Falling abruptly silent as she realises how her words could be read, she pales and places her hand fleetingly over her mouth. “Oh, Will... I'm sorry. I never meant...”

“It's alright,” I murmur, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine in order to give it a quick squeeze. “I know exactly what you mean, and I'm as sick of the damage he's caused as you are. If the Bandidos take him out then, fine, I won't shed a tear. My plan though, such as it is, is simply for the bikers to provide a diversion, to keep Bennett busy while we look for Ethan in the last place we know he was heading to.”

Turning her hand over in mine, Jane squeezes it back and offers me a grateful smile. “Sounds good. So... Explain to me just how exactly you plan to make it happen...”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Subtlety, I can now say with the unshakeable conviction of having seen it for myself, is not word, or indeed a concept, that carries any weight in the any-old-excuse-for-violence world of the Bandidos. While reasonably confident that my random – at best – plan would raise the ire of a couple of bikers, enough at the very least to keep Bennett busy while we crept on to his property and systematically worked our way through it in the hope of finding Ethan, I never, not in my wildest, most creative dreams, expected half the Goddamn local chapter to roll up his driveway. Sitting in our nondescript hired van – waiting, and hoping, and definitely not talking about what we were going to do if they didn't show – a short distance up the road, we knew the plan had worked a good minute before the first bike sped into view because of the sheer, vibrating noise that many Harley Davidsons make when cruising down the road together. The windows of the van shook and the seats quite literally vibrated with their combined horsepower. As impressive as the noise was though the sight, in an ominous and threatening way, was even more so.

I don't know if being big and menacing looking is a prerequisite to join the Bandidos or whether it's just a shape the average member assumes over time, but there's certainly something truly alarming looking about thirty, large, black leather clad men on Harley's heading in your direction. And that's even without noticing that a good quarter of them have rifles slung over their beefy shoulders or that their expressions have a steely, out-for-blood determination about them.

I'm still not sure as to whether, fuelled by the belief that he sold them out to the FBI in order to get out of debt, their ultimate aim in terrorising Bennett is to kill him, extract the money from him, or simply make him pay – most likely bloodily and with a lot of begging for mercy – for the error of his ways. What's more, I still can't decide if I actually... care. What Bennett did to me in Havana is history and I have no particular want or need to get any form of revenge on him. If pushed on the subject I'd probably confess to being content enough with him being behind bars somewhere so he can't ever do it to anyone else. If however he's done something... unimaginable – which, actually, I can imagine and have been fighting to push the thoughts out of my mind the second they pop into it ever since Benji materialised in my office – to Ethan, then... Well, that's a different story entirely. It's simple, really. Hurt me and I'm indifferent to your future prospects. Hurt someone I care about and I couldn't care less if your life expectancy can suddenly be counted in minutes.

So... If a pissed off Bandido kills Bennett then, hey, so be it. I won't lose any sleep over the fact. Whatever the bridge is – he escapes, we don't find Ethan or we find him dead – we'll cross it when we come to it. All the various scenarios have been contemplated, if not verbally on the jet or on the ground while we waited for nightfall and the Bandidos to make their move then individually in our minds, and if need be we'll revisit them if or when the time comes.

Right now however is a time for action. No second guessing or worrying, just go with the flow, focus on the goal action. The Bandidos more than adequately playing the role handed to them, they barged their way through the crudely electrified gate and are now rampaging through the house in their furious pursuit of Bennett as he runs for his life. Following, dressed all in black and knowing how to hide in the shadows, in the mob's wake, I saw him for myself, all hollow eyed and skeletal, and felt nothing. The man who held me captive five months ago is gone and in his place is a dead man walking. He's clearly so drug addled now that if the bikers or IMF don't get Bennett then it won't be that long before his meth habit will.

The house, which not all that long ago would have been classed as a grand family home, is now a derelict hovel and it wouldn't surprise me to learn he's been hiding out in it all along. From what I saw of it, before leaving the house to Benji and Jane – and the Bandidos – and starting on searching through the multiple garages and sheds, the damage is so great that the term 'renovators dream' doesn't even come close to describing how wrecked it is. Holes have been punched in the walls, piles of rubbish teeter precariously high in most of the rooms, carpet has been torn up and nailed over the windows and, meth highs apparently offering their own form of inspired creativity, graffiti style murals in red and black cover just about every available surface. Then there's the smell. Think the most crowded third world prison in the middle of a heatwave that you can imagine, and then turn the water off. The stench of human waste is so great that one of the biggest and toughest looking bikers actually had to run back outside and throw up.

Assuming Ethan is here somewhere, and I keep telling myself that he has to be, that failure at this point simply isn't an option, how the mad-as-fuck Bennett managed to capture him isn't something I can even begin to guess at. His mind's obviously gone and it's clear the meth is the only thing keeping him going, so if he has captured Ethan... Just... Go figure.

“Saturn. The house is clean,” Jane's voice announces in my earpiece as I reach the oldest, most abandoned looking shed at the furthermost point of the yard. “Repeat, the house is clean. Venus and Pluto en route to the pool house.”

“Copy that, Venus,” I reply, trying the door and discovering that, unlike every other – sadly devoid of any signs of life – shed and garage I've searched, it's locked tight. “And Bennett?”

“Last seen arming himself with cans of spray paint and barricading himself in a bathroom.”

“Copy that.” 

A tremor of hope surging through me at the unexpected discovery of a locked door, I try wrenching it open with brute force and when that doesn't work fall back on the tried and true method of SWAT teams everywhere and give it a forceful kick. This does the trick and I'm still feeling the aftershocks working their way up my leg as I half fall through the door into the small, damp feeling shed. Wrinkling my nose at the heady scent of fertiliser – which while bad is still preferable to the stench in the house – that hangs in the air, I decide that this has to have been a garden shed back in the day and, unable to see clearly in the dark, pull my torch out of one of the many pockets in my tactical vest. Switching it on, I run the beam of light around the shed, taking in the rusty tools lining the walls and open cupboards full of bottles of weed killer and fertiliser when, behind the antique looking lawnmower by the back wall, I see it...

A pair of denim clad legs lying on the dirty concrete floor.

Moving quickly over to the body, my breath catches in my throat as the relief I should be feeling at having finally found Ethan is trampled all over by the dreadful sense of shock caused by the brilliantly red pool of blood he's lying in.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit! It... It's not going to end like this! I... I won't let it!”

Crouching down, I fight to control my emotions, to remember all my training and to act accordingly instead of simply losing it, as I pull my glove off and carefully, almost reluctantly for fear of what I might find, take Ethan's pulse in his neck. Albeit weak, thankfully there is one and this is all I need to spur me into action. Deathly pale, deeply unconscious and with a stomach wound which has caused considerable blood loss, but alive.

Thank. God.

All's well that's going to end well. I'll have it no other way.

“Venus. Pluto. Saturn has Jupiter. Bring the van around to the shed at the end of the yard and let's get the hell out of here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Thanking the nurse again for the cup of coffee I have no intention of drinking for fear of upsetting my knotted tight stomach even further, I wait until she's left the room before softly closing the door and returning to my sentinel-like position by the right side of the bed. Although there's a chair, a comfortable looking armchair at that, not your usual rickety number seemingly favoured by hospitals the world over, set close enough to the bed that I could sit in it and easily reach out and touch Ethan if I wanted to, I remain standing and, not knowing what else to do with them, fold my arms across my chest. 

Jane and Benji, exhausted more from the mental anguish – worrying about Ethan, worrying about whether to involve me or not, worrying about whether they'd done the right thing in allowing him to go off by himself – of the past twenty hours than any actual physical activity, are asleep on the room's small sofa and I can't deny that I'm envious of their obvious ability to so quickly switch off. In a quaint reversal of the sexes, Jane sits upright with her legs stretched out in front of her while Benji sprawls across the sofa and effectively uses her upper arm as a pillow. Like me though they're both still dressed in the black combat clothing we wore to Bennett's place and that sadly spoils the image from being one you'd want to capture in a photo.

The faintly metallic smell of blood, Ethan's blood, clings to my sweater and although I've scrubbed my hands raw I can still see the sight of them covered in the brilliant red liquid if I close my eyes. I feel tired, vaguely ill, and definitely in dire need of a shower, but even though I've been assured by the doctor that he'll live and is in no danger whatsoever I can't bring myself to leave Ethan's side. Not even knowing that he wouldn't be alone, as neither Benji nor Jane are showing any signs of going anywhere, or that there's basically nothing I could do for him should he wake up anyway, can convince me that it would be okay to leave for the small period of time it would take to freshen up.

He's alive, I haven't seen him for five months, and...

I don't want to take my eyes off him. Just because I survived the past five months by burying my head in the sand and refusing to acknowledge... what I'd lost and what I should have fought harder for... doesn't mean that it can't all come crashing down around me the second we're, regardless of how unfortunate the circumstances might be, together again. It's ridiculous, and my usually dominant logic chip can't comprehend it at all, but it's just how it is. Nothing else matters. How we got to this point, the undeniable fact that there's nothing to say anything is going to change – none of it matters.

Just...

Nothing matters. Not the fact that when I woke up this morning to the familiar blue glow of the .avi screen on the television – after having fallen asleep in front of yet another movie I'll probably never see the end of – I never would have imagined that my day would be ending in a Dallas hospital room surrounded by all the members of the team I'd retreated from. Not the ease in which I fell back into 'agent-mode' or how, if I wanted to break a habit of a lifetime and be truly honest with myself, I'd admit to having missed it. Not the dressing down from the Secretary I have to look forward to in my future or even, and again with toying with the novel idea of honesty here, what my future holds in general. Not Bennett, who managed to survive the attack of the frothing at the mouth bikers thanks to a phone call from his nearest neighbour alerting the local authorities to the small fact of life that all hell was breaking loose on his property, and who is now under the care of a psychiatrist in Dallas' premier mental institution. 

Seriously, none of it matters.

Ethan is still with us and, yet another nasty scar marring his flesh aside, will make a complete recovery. The doctor, a young, still enthusiastic man who gave every impression of thinking all his Christmases had come at once in the form of the super secretive IMF requiring his services, said that he was lucky, that fortunately the gardening shears he'd been stabbed with missed all the vital organs and only nicked... a few things here and there. Actually, he said more than that and in far more detail but, fixating on the 'he'll be fine' part of the conversation, I can't really say I was listening. Probable concussion. Fairly serious blood loss, but... Blah, blah, blah. Surgery was a success. Blah, blah. IMF, huh? Blah. Will need to take it easy. Blah, blah. Is that a real gun? Blah. I don't suppose you can tell me what you're in town for?

Noticing that Ethan is no longer lying quite so still and is starting to struggle to consciousness, I move closer to the bed and instinctively hold my hand out in anticipation of what I know is going to happen next. Not knowing where he is, how he got there or why there's a drip attached to his arm, his highly tuned survival instinct will immediately kick in and, needing to know everything at once, he'll try to be on the move even before his eyes are fully open. It's a place most agents have been in at least once during their career and while not a good one there are times when such a reaction is the difference between life and death. Falling out of a hospital bed that you really need to remain in, however... Well, basically it's a waste of energy you can ill afford to lose.

As I would have felt safe betting my life on, Ethan starts groping around for the drip while his eyes are still closed and I stop him by placing my hand over his and gently squeezing it. 

“It's okay, Ethan,” I murmur as, possibly even more alarmed at being touched than by the strange situation he'd woken up to, his eyes fly open and he tries frantically to sit upright. “Hey! Ethan... Ethan, look at me!” I add hurriedly, releasing my hold on his hand in order to grab him by the shoulders and keep him down on the bed. “Just... Calm down and look me. See? It's Will here, and you're safe in a Dallas hospital.”

Flopping down on the mattress, Ethan gazes at me through dull, uncomprehending blue eyes that can hardly stay open. “You're not Will,” he mumbles thickly. “Will's gone.”

“I haven't gone anywhere,” I reply, softening my hold on him as it quickly becomes clear he's already sliding back off to sleep. “I'm here, Ethan, and you're safe.”

“No. Will's gone,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. “Like Julie and everyone else I've ever cared for, he left and I lost him... Lost him for good...”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“He was going to kill you.”

More surprised at the fact Ethan, who has been feigning sleep ever since he pulled his seatbelt on and slumped against the passenger door, has spoken than at what he'd actually said, I glance at him as I bring the car to a stop at a red light and murmur inquiringly, “Sorry? I think I heard you correctly but, well, seeing as it came so out of the blue I thought I'd just better check to make sure.”

“He was going to kill you,” Ethan repeats flatly. His eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, I don't know if they're open or not, but what I do know is that even if they are they're trained on the bustling world outside his window as opposed to so much as flicking in my direction. We're in the car together, but until he spoke we may as well have quite literally been hundreds of miles apart. It didn't matter that I could see him as it was simply like – the lights were on but nobody was home – looking at an incredibly lifelike looking dummy. 

Non communicative, evasive, sullen, clearly miserable even if there was no way in hell he was ever going to admit it - from the moment he was discharged from the IMF infirmary and found himself stuck in my company without an audience of concerned onlookers to put on the 'all's well' performance for that he'd been practising and perfecting ever since properly waking up in Dallas, he's been behaving like a black cloud of despair. Having been there and done that myself, I get the act, the need to pretend things are far better than they actually are, but not having it in me to combat it at the moment I was seriously beginning to contemplate, before he opened his mouth and actually deigned to speak to me, just kicking him out of the car once we get to his place and leaving him to it. It would have been a cop out, a complete and utter failure on my part in both terms of caring and trying to find the – inevitable – right opportunity to... talk, but I'm tired and am no more up for going through the motions right now than Ethan is.

Something has got to give. I know that. What I don't know however is what exactly that something is going to prove to be or when exactly it's going to give. Ethan's groggy, painkiller fuelled confession the night before last from his hospital bed weighs heavily on me and I don't know what to either make of it or what to do with it. I... Actually, we, given how Ethan is doing his best to avoid me and thus subsequently the issue at hand, can't pretend indefinitely that it never happened, but...

I don't know. Maybe we can. God alone knows we've been doing a good enough job of it so far.

“Bennett,” Ethan adds as, seemingly unconsciously, he clenches his fingers around the denim of his jeans. “That was his end game. He wanted me to find your body while it was still warm.”

“Oh.” I don't know what else to say. Despite Bennett being behind everything, hell, despite even the fact I saw him only two days ago, what he did to me, how this all started, isn't something I think about. He hurt me and I'll forever wear, both physically and mentally, the scars, but what followed had the worst effect. Yes, Bennett essentially caused it, but how Ethan and I reacted did the more lasting damage. It threw – whatever it was we had – our friendship off course and, regardless of what's to blame, Bennett's attack, my retreat into the... safe... world of the office, and Ethan's meek acceptance of it, that's easily what's had the most impact.

“How do you know this?” I query – feeling as though I should show some interest in this line of conversation even though I'm fairly confident I don't need to know the answer – after what feels like a drawn out silence has hung heavily over the interior of the car for a beat too long.

“He told me,” Ethan replies simply. Grimacing from the effort, he sits up a little straighter in his seat and tilts his head back to stare at the roof. “Between the unfortunate incident with the gardening shears and the slamming of my head against the concrete floor because the blood loss just wasn't quick enough in knocking me out for his liking, he was quite loquacious.”

“Loquacious, huh,” I mutter, choosing the tried and true path of fixating on something of no importance over a) marvelling at that being the most amount of words I've heard out of Ethan for far too long and, b) the casual way he let it slip that Bennett really did do his best to kill him. “I got the impression, from what I saw of him, that he was so drug fucked that he'd be lucky to string two words together.”

“He'd just taken a hit and was feeling pretty invincible,” Ethan replies with a shrug. “That's how he was able to get the better of me. It wasn't my finest moment as it was, granted, but he was high, I didn't see the damn shears until it was too late and then, I suppose because he could, he wanted to talk.”

“Oh. But, hang on...” Accepting that if this is going to be our first proper conversation that I'd better – even if it is only by way of celebrating the fact we're actually talking to each other – get with the program and fully participate in it, I frown and, even though I know I'm wasting my time, that he won't be looking at me, glance at Ethan. “If his great plan was the grand unveil of my still warm corpse, what gives with his fingerprints being on the note left on the windscreen? Surely that doesn't make sense. He had me, he should have just killed me and been done with it.”

“It all made perfect sense to him,” Ethan responds, his gaze still fixed on the roof of the car. “His plan was to leave the note where I'd find it before racing back to the warehouse and lying in wait until I showed up. Then, once I was there he was going to slit your throat. He wanted me, as I'm sure you've already worked out, to experience the same grief and rage he felt when he saw me kill his father.”

“Oh.”

“It would have worked too, if fate hadn't intervened and placed a five car pile up directly in his route back to the warehouse. If he hadn't had his path blocked by the crash, and if we hadn't taken a different route because Benji had picked up on the road being blocked, then...” Pausing, he goes back to looking out the side window and sighs. “Well... You could say the result most likely would have been entirely different.”

“Oh.” I know that I'm beginning to sound like a cracked record and that responding to just about everything with an 'oh' can hardly be called great conversation, but I just don't know what else to say. Knowing that the near miss was even... nearer... than I'd thought it was doesn't change anything. Be it fate or luck or whatever, what happened, happened. The same blithe acceptance can be applied to Bennett not finishing Ethan off while he had the chance or our timing in finding him before he could bleed out. Again, at the end of the day it's all just history.

“Mmm... Oh.”

“Don't dwell on it, Ethan. What's done is done and all that. I'm here, you're here, and Bennett's locked away in a nut house where, I wouldn't be surprised if he gets to see out the rest of his days.”

“It's already done.”

“What is?”

“The arrangements to keep him there until he's carted out in a body bag. The Secretary signed off on it this morning.”

“It's probably for the best,” I murmur, far more surprised that I hadn't been aware of this than I am at having yet another example of IMF's far reaching authority handed to me on a platter. Safely locked away in a mental institution until the end of his time? I can live with that. His death wouldn't change anything anyway.

“It'll do,” Ethan mutters with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “At least I'll always know where he is this way.”

A convenient red light meaning I can do this without running the risk of driving up the back of the Fed-Ex truck in front, I – throw caution to the winds – reach over and place my hand lightly on Ethan's arm. “Look, you're not to blame yourself for any of this. Bennett Senior was a risk who needed taking out and neither the path Junior ended up on nor the turns he alone chose to take are your fault. Besides, it's over now.”

“If you say so,” Ethan murmurs as he turns his head to look down at my hand as it rests on his arm. Tensing slightly at my touch, he opens his mouth as though to complain but in the end settles instead on sighing and swivelling back around to face the windscreen. “Green light,” he adds, quite possibly feeling more compelled to point out the obvious than to continue the conversation.

“Yeah. It is.” Too tired to push Ethan, I let the subject slip and, placing my hand back on the steering wheel, drive the car across the intersection. It may well be that I'm being gutless and turning my back on the perfect opportunity to – bite the bullet – get everything out in the open once and for all, but if it is the case then so be it. The last three days having taken more out of me than I care to admit, I'm no more up to playing verbal games (otherwise known as how many ways can we avoid the point) than I am to offering up a logical argument or successfully participating in a heart-to-heart at the moment anyway.

The mission, even though calling it that is something of a stretch, wasn't physically tiring, but all the associated bits and pieces that came part and parcel with it have just left me feeling wiped out. Stress and worry, doubt and fear, relief and concern, decision making and organising, travelling and waiting around... You name it and the last couple of days have had it. Oh, and let's not forget the dry-mouth inducing summons from the Secretary to explain our actions and the dutiful ass kissing that Jane, Benji and I had to go through this morning in order to remain on the IMF payroll. If we'd gone off the reservation to rescue anyone other than Ethan – Secretaries may come and go, but their number one, go to, pet agent never changes – we may have been in need of new employment but as it was, after a lecture to beat all lectures, we were just sent on our way and that was the end of it.

Silencing reigning supreme in the car, I concentrate on driving and not another word is spoken until I've pulled in to Ethan's driveway and, after having switched the engine off, am hesitating over removing the key and getting out. I know I should go inside with him and make sure he goes straight to bed like I promised Dr Watkins I would, but at the same time I also know there's nothing to say Ethan will want me hanging around and that I could instead just use the time to drive home and try to get some sleep myself.

“Coming in?” Ethan queries as, not feeling any urge to wait for an answer, he opens the door and climbs stiffly out of the car.

Taking that to be as close to an invitation as I'm likely to get and that my decision has basically been made for me, I get out of the car, lock it, and follow him up to the front door. Unlike my home which is a nice house in a nice suburb, Ethan's is an expensive house in an expensive suburb. It is also, with its two storeys – looking as though they're forever lying in wait for a photographer from a top design magazine to call by and commit they're stylish perfection to film – and outdoor patio area complete with lap pool glittering in the seemingly ever-present sunlight, a show home that doesn't even look lived in during the rare times he's actually in it. It's a base, a somewhat glorified motel to crash in when on standby and that, however, is all it is. Hugely pricey pieces of original artwork line the walls and the security system that protects it is second only to the one at IMF headquarters, but I know, having once asked him, that Ethan wouldn't care if it were to just up and disappear from the face of the earth. Benji's even been known to query – not, mind you, ever within Ethan's hearing – whether the reason behind his drive, his obsession to be forever on the move, to never choose not to accept a mission, is simply to avoid having to come home to his icy, almost morgue-like house.

Once Ethan, who has yet again lapsed into silence, has deftly disarmed the security system and opened the door, we walk inside and make our way up the stairs to the master bedroom on the first floor. Well, that is I follow Ethan because, still not entirely sure why I've even come inside in the first place, I don't know what else to do and it's just easier to trail after him in a sheep-like fashion than it is to think for myself. Reaching the bedroom, I somehow manage to come to a stop of my own free will in the doorway and watch Ethan as he turns a bedside lamp on before drawing the drapes and starting to get undressed.

Hardly believing what I'm seeing, I take a tentative step further into the bedroom and try unsuccessfully to catch Ethan's eyes. “You're going to bed?” I mutter, shaking my head. “If you're this unwell are you sure you should have left the...”

“You promised Dr Watkins that you'd make sure I went straight to bed,” Ethan interrupts as, down to his boxers, he scowls at the large white bandage covering his stomach wound before throwing the bedding back and gingerly climbing on to the mattress.

“Yeah, but...” The bandage being a visible reminder of one of the many things I don't want to think about, I look away and shrug. “Since when have I had any say over what you do or don't do.”

“I'm tired,” he replies, “and, having nothing better to do with my time, I may as well get some rest.” Pausing, he glances at me for a second before pulling the bedding up and making to lie down. “Will...” he murmurs, sitting back up again and waiting until I've turned to fully face him before quietly adding, “Actually... You look tired too.”

“That's because I am,” I respond, my gaze drawn to Ethan's as I wonder where this could possibly be going. “I feel like I've been hit by a truck and... I can say this now because we made it here in one piece... probably should have been at home in bed myself instead of playing chauffeur. But...” I shrug and smile as, autopilot kicking in, I walk over to the bed and start to smooth the bedding around Ethan. “Seeing as you've been so strangely obedient and gone to bed, maybe I'll do my bit for the other road users and have a nap on the sofa before getting behind the wheel again.”

Moving with a quickness and elegance of motion that he shouldn't be capable of in his current state, Ethan closes his hand around my wrist. “Stay,” he announces, tightening his grip on me and using his free hand to pat the mattress. “Will... Please...”

Taken aback by this turn of turn of events, I gently pull my wrist free of Ethan's grip and take a step back from the bed. “Ethan...”

“You're tired, you need to sleep, and it's not like you haven't been in this bed before.”

“Ethan...”

“I don't bite. Well, not currently at any rate and never without your permission.”

“But...” I don't know why I'm arguing, given that I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be, but... We all but ignore the fact the other even exists for the past five months and can't see a conversation through to a comprehensive end, and... Now he wants us to share a bed?

“Will...” Looking increasingly dejected, Ethan flops down on the mattress and sighs. “I know we need to talk and we will, I promise, but for now just get in the bed with me, please... This isn't an act, I'm tired, you're tired and I think this would be good for... for both of us...”

“I...” Giving up, I nod and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, start to toe my shoes off. “You're right. We do need to talk but now isn't the time. We're both tired and, yeah, okay, I'd only be lying if I said I could think of anywhere I'd rather be.” Quickly, before I can fall prey to second thoughts, stripping down to my boxers and t-shirt, I climb into bed and, as Ethan turns off the lamp, make myself comfortable.

“Thank you,” he whispers, shifting closer until our bodies are touching and, as though our movements had been choreographed, we carefully settle around each other. “I know I probably have no right to say this, but, Will... I've missed you. I've missed you so Goddamn much...”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The both unfamiliar and unexpected sound of a doorbell ringing waking me, I open my eyes and discover to my amazement that what I was firmly convinced had to be a dream is in fact real. I am actually in Ethan's bed and, albeit dressed in jeans and a black shirt and sitting up on top of the bedding reading an online newspaper on his iPad as opposed to sleeping, Ethan himself is actually still here next to me. The only light in the room comes from the lamp on the bedside table next to Ethan and, as the block out drapes are still pulled tightly across the window, this means I have no idea what the time is and quickly settle on issuing forth with the first thing that pops into my head.

“Doorbell?”

Putting his iPad down on his lap, Ethan glances at me and smiles. “With observation skills like that I can see why you work for the IMF.”

“Smart ass,” I grumble as, with an effort, I push myself into a more upright position and lean back against the bedhead. “Now, did I or did I not just hear a doorbell?”

“You did.”

“Isn't it a little... early... for someone to be standing on your doorstep?”

“Not really.” Ethan's smile broadens. “It is after all close to nine-thirty.”

Not quite understanding why Ethan's smiling at me like the Cheshire Cat, I yawn and stretch. “In that case then it's a little late. Girl Guides and their cookies should have been in bed hours ago.”

“As it's nine-thirty in the morning,” Ethan retorts, his smile slipping effortlessly into a smirk, “I take back what I just said about your observation skills.”

“Oh...” Although not entirely sure I believe him, I do the calculations in my head and don't believe the answer any more than I believe Ethan's telling me the truth about the time. If it... is... nine-thirty in the morning, and we went straight to bed after arriving here a bit after five in the afternoon, that means... I've been asleep for something like fifteen hours? Just... Surely not. Granted, wanting to make the most of having Ethan in my arms again and not knowing if or when it was ever likely to happen again, I lay awake for an hour or so, but... Even taking that into consideration, there's no way I could have slept for that long. “But...”

“Don't look so mortified,” Ethan laughs as he gives my shoulder a reassuring pat. “You really did sleep that long and the reason I didn't have the heart to wake you was because it was pretty clear you needed it.”

“You should have woken me,” I mutter, stifling another yawn. “I'm supposed to be looking after you, not just taking up space in your bed. Besides...” I gesture at him. “ You've obviously been up for a while.”

“I needed the bathroom and was due some pills,” he replies, shrugging. “I then decided that as I was up I may as well have a shower and get dressed but, as you can see, I didn't stray very far.” The doorbell ringing again, he rolls his eyes and adds, “They're persistent, aren't they?”

“Who? The Girl Guides?”

“Keep up the references to the Girl Guides and I might just begin to think you're obsessed with them.”

“Only their cookies.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.” Snickering, Ethan taps the screen of the iPad in order to access the live feed coming from the hidden camera above his front door and holds it up for me to see. “You'll never guess...”

Peering at the screen, I take in the image of Benji, Jane and Ethan's sometime team mate, Luther, standing on the doorstep and can't help but smile. “We should have known.”

“We should have,” Ethan agrees, turning the iPad off and throwing it onto the foot of the bed. “We can play dead if you want to. With any luck they'll eventually go away.”

I shake my head and, accepting that the time has come to get moving, swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and put my feet on the floor. “No they won't. They'll stand there until they can convince Benji to break in which, being perfectly incapable of saying no to Jane he'll agree to within less than a minute.”

“State of the art security system though, remember?”

“Mmm... And don't forget who designed it and helped you install it.”

Ethan groans and, following my lead, stands up. “Benji.”

“Uh-huh. Benji. And you know as well as I do that he's the only one apart from you that can get into this miniature version of Fort Knox without killing himself.” Standing up, I stretch and, trying to work out if I can fit in a quick shower before fronting our guests, glance longingly at the door to the en suite.

“You can stay here and hide if you'd like,” Ethan offers as, the sound of the doorbell echoing through the house once again, he starts to walk towards the door. “I'm sure I can put on a good enough performance of being no fun and needing to rest that I can see them off in half an hour tops.”

“As my car's in the driveway they'll already know I'm here,” I reply with a shrug. 

“Actually, it's not. I moved it into the garage when I went down and got my pills out of it earlier,” Ethan replies, pausing in the doorway. “Seriously, Will. If you don't want to be seen here or whatever you don't have to. I... I know we need to talk and that the last thing we need for it is an audience...”

“Just give me time to freshen up and, if need be, we'll see them off together,” I murmur, making shooing gestures at the doorway. “I appreciate the offer, and I can't say it's not tempting, but they're my friends too and I don't mind seeing them.”

“Okay,” Ethan agrees, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he slips through the door. “See you shortly then.”

Knowing that I need to keep moving, that now is most definitely not the time to start worrying about the conversation that's to come, I make my way into the en suite and quickly go through the motions of making myself presentable. Once I'm both clean and dry I pull on yesterday's jeans over a pair of Ethan's boxers and, seeing as I've already invaded his drawers in search of underwear, settle on grabbing one of his T-shirts to put on as well. A pale green Ben Sherman -- that as I can't recall ever having seen him wearing before I hope won't immediately be obvious as his to anyone else either – taking my fancy, I pull it on before cursorily running my fingers though my hair and heading out of the door on bare feet.

Walking quietly down the stairs, I find everyone in the open plan kitchen area and have barely stepped a foot through the door before Benji's swooping in on me and wrapping his arms around me for a rough hug.

“Will! How utterly marvellous to see you!” he exclaims, beaming at me with a degree of enthusiasm that, and I don't care if it is nearly ten o'clock, is far too much for this time of the morning. “Does this mean we're back together again?”

Raising my eyebrow, I hug him back and somewhat drily query, “We're...? I hate to break this to you, Benji, my friend, but we were... never... together.”

“Oh!” Looking aghast that I could translate his statement that way, Benji releases me and blushes furiously. “I... Uh... I didn't mean... that... way! I meant the team... You know, we as in the team, as in... Uh... We're together again as a team, not... Uh... Not as in you and... uh... me...”

“Chill, Benji,” Jane interjects, gently hip and shouldering him out of the way so she can better position herself to look me up and down appraisingly. “He's teasing you.”

“Oh... Of course he is...” Still blushing, Benji flashes me a weak grin and sidles off to hide behind the considerable bulk of Luther as he stands by Ethan, his expression as usual not giving anything away as he watches our peculiar version of a domestic scene being played out before him.

“I've got to say you look better than when I last saw you,” Jane murmurs, winking as she reaches out and fingers the hem of – Ethan's – my T-shirt. “Nice top, by the way. It suits your colouring better than...”

“Jane! You're looking good too,” I interrupt, batting her hand away and giving her a warning look that only causes her to laugh. “Now, what brings you all here this early, huh? Please don't tell me it's work related.”

“Nope. Not work related. It's a nice day and as we're all on downtime we decided we'd avail ourselves to Ethan's patio and have a barbeque,” she replies, giving me another wink. “Finding you here, Will, is just an added bonus.”

“Mmm... I'm sure it is.” Wanting to get away from Jane and the mischievous glint she's got in her eyes, I move in Luther's direction and, still not knowing what he thinks of me despite having met him half a dozen or so times now, flash him a cautious smile by way of greeting.

“Bandidos, huh?” Luther mutters, looking down and, as he always does, making me feel both small and strangely insignificant.

“Pardon me?” As greetings go I honestly don't think I've ever encountered a more random one.

“I hear you used the mother fucking Bandidos as a diversion in Dallas,” Luther states in a tone of voice that couldn't sound more disbelieving if he tried.

I nod and make a point of standing up to my full height. “Yeah. I did.”

“Man!” A grin stretching across his lips, Luther slaps me on the shoulder with such force that I nearly stumble. “As I never would have thought you had it in you, you have my respect.”

“Uh... Thanks.” Rubbing my shoulder – and regretting more and more not having accepted Ethan's offer of hiding out in the bedroom – I shift away from Luther and, mouthing 'help me' at him, make my way over to Ethan. “So... Looks like you're having a barbecue, yeah?”

“Looks like.” Grabbing a six-pack of beer out of the fridge, Ethan shoves it at Luther before snatching a bag of Doritos out of the cupboard and throwing it at Benji. “Here. That should get you started while Will and I have breakfast,” he declares, looking pointedly towards the sliding glass doors that lead out on to the patio. “Go. We'll join you shortly.”

“What do you mean... breakfast?” Luther murmurs, holding the beer up. “This... is... breakfast.”

“Not when you're on antibiotics the size of horse pills it's not,” Ethan retorts, taking the more in-your-face route this time of pointing towards the doors. “Go on. You'll enjoy the nice day more if you're out in it and not in here watching me burn toast.”

“Come on, boys,” Jane states, closing her hand around Benji's and beginning to tug him out of the kitchen. “As I could do with one of those beers right about now, let's leave them to it.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Luther grins, earning himself a sour – or should that be, tinged green with jealousy – look from Benji for his troubles as, finally, they all troop outside.

The kitchen suddenly looking a lot more spacious than it did a moment ago with five people milling around it, I glance at Ethan and comment, “Nicely done.”

“It achieved my aim,” he replies, shrugging. “If you'd prefer to take your breakfast outside and join them though just say the word. I didn't mean to sound so... dictatorial. It's just...” Trailing off, he gives me a wan, possibly even – given that it's Ethan, who I suspect mastered the art of hiding his emotions in primary school, we're talking about here – slightly nervous look as he busies himself with popping slices of bread into the toaster. “I thought we might try to get... the talk.. out of the way, that's all.”

“Fine.” With Ethan calling the shots on one hand I feel a little like a passenger merely along for the ride, while on the other I'm grateful to him for doing what he always does and that's taking control and, regardless of where it might take him, running with it. I want, despite not knowing what to say or where it might all end up, to get this over and done with, to hopefully clear the air once and for all, as much as Ethan clearly does, but it's not in my personality to push the issue. Excuses – you've got guests, it can wait until you're fully healed – having always been my postpone-getting-out-of-jail-free card, I'm used to putting my wants second to keeping my head down and going with the flow. That's why Croatia had such a devastating effect on me. I quashed my instinctive desire to tell Ethan about the hit squad and when what I thought happened and I thought I'd so spectacularly failed, I hated myself for being the dutiful agent and not breaking protocol.

“We'll eat first though, yeah?” Ethan queries, his expression changing to one of concern. “Will? You okay?”

“Fine,” I repeat, forcing a smile across my lips as I walk over to the coffee machine. “If you've got any milk I'll make the coffee while you make the toast.”

“That's one good thing about the interlopers out there,” he responds, opening the refrigerator and handing me a carton of milk, “they went grocery shopping before they came here.”

Taking the milk, I set in on the bench and grab two cups from the overhead cupboard. “B.Y.O. barbecue supplies. Smart.”

“Or cunning, seeing as I couldn't use the excuse of not having any food in the house to get rid of them.”

“That too.”

Once breakfast of jam on toast and coffee has been prepared, we move into the dining room and eat in reasonably comfortable silence at the table. Instead of feeling – like a condemned man taking his last meal – a dull sense of nerves or dread at what's to come, I actually feel curiously hopeful. I'm still not foolish enough to honestly think everything will just miraculously fall perfectly into place, but... Who knows? The only way to find out is to bite the bullet and go along for the ride. In fact, as Ethan pushes away his plate and begins to fiddle with his cup, it's a ride I'm suddenly anxious to start.

“Okay,” I murmur, toasting him with my cup as, sitting back in my seat, I meet his gaze. “How do you want to go about this?”

“I don't want to be going about this at all, but seeing as I have to,” Ethan replies, looking me directly in the eye and, as I swear he and he alone has the capability of achieving, holding me captivated, “the first thing I have to say to you, Will, is that I'm sorry... I'm really very, very sorry and if you take nothing else away from this I just want you to know that you have no idea how damn sorry I am.”

While I had no preconceived ideas in respect to how Ethan was going to approach this... talk... I'm still taken aback by his obviously heartfelt apology and, without really thinking about the bluntness of my response, blurt out, “For what exactly? Maybe I should know already, but what are you apologising for?”

“For just walking out on you the way I did,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Instead of staying and talking to you about your decision to leave the team like a normal person would have, I walked out on you and never looked back. Not only was it incredibly rude of me but it was also wrong.”

“As the saying goes, there's no smoke without fire,” I respond, relieved that I now know what he's talking about and that we're on the same page. “You may have left, Ethan, but I let you go. I also never went after you, so... While I accept your apology and thank you for it, I'm as much to blame in that respect as you are. I quit on you without warning and, yeah, I'm sorry for how I handled things too. Clearly we're as bad as each other when it comes to...”

“Fighting for what we want?” Ethan interrupts as his gaze slips down to his cup of coffee.

“That's one way of looking at it. A good way, actually.”

“It's just...”

When it becomes clear by the slowness in which he takes a sip of coffee that Ethan doesn't quite know how to continue, I take matters into my own hands and murmur, “It's just that you accepted what you were used to...”

“Used to?” he queries, curious enough about my cryptic statement to all too briefly glance over at me. “I'm not quite sure...”

“What you said that first night in Dallas about feeling as though everyone always leaves you,” I clarify softly. “You felt abandoned by me and, having become used to it, simply accepted it as, I don't know, your lot in life or something.”

“I...” Paling, Ethan swishes the coffee around in his cup and won't look at me, not even when I shift from my seat to the one nearest to his. “I said that...”

“You were barely conscious and high on painkillers but, yes, you mentioned that everyone you've ever... uh... cared about has left you,” I murmur, reaching out and gently pulling his hand away from the cup so I can squeeze it. “And for that I'm incredibly sorry. I left the team because I felt like a liability, not because I didn't want to be with you. Oh God, Ethan, of course I wanted to be with you, but... But I didn't feel as though I was either up for it or even worth it, so I reverted to form as that prick Carlson would say and just, admittedly without sparing a thought for anyone else's feelings, closed myself off. It... It was selfish of me and I'm sorry. Please believe me when I say that I never meant to hurt you.”

Sighing, Ethan turns his hand over in mine in order to squeeze it back but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on his cup. “Your leaving the team hit me worse than everyone else I've ever lost,” he whispers, “because from the start, Will, you were different...”

“What was the give away, the Y chromosome or the flat chest?” I reply, assuming he's referring to Julie or other past girlfriends and trying to lighten the moment with a joke. From my experience with agents, both IMF and from other agencies, their sexuality is far more... pragmatic... than it is set in stone and bisexuality is almost the norm as it allows for relief to be found in the arms of anyone who'll offer it. Of course that's not to say there aren't still the odd completely homophobic asshole – like I'm sure Carlson is – or breast-obsessives out there, but switching sides to suit either the need or what's available is certainly common place. I know, despite my true preference being men, that I've done it myself without any regrets.

“You were different because almost from the start we didn't have any secrets,” Ethan responds, ignoring my in hindsight ill advised attempt at humour. “I didn't have to hide my life from you and I could talk to you without constantly worrying about letting something slip that I shouldn't have. I also knew that I could trust you, that I was... safer... with you than I'd ever been with anyone else. Not just in a physical sense, but that I... I could just be myself with you. So... When you left... When I let you go without so much as a goodbye, it hit me hard. Far harder even than I ever would have expected it to...” His piece said, he sighs again and, pulling his hand free of mine, stands up. “But, hey, none of that's your fault and you're not to think it is. I only mentioned it in order to explain what I apparently let slip in the hospital. I wouldn't have said anything otherwise.”

“Perhaps it's best that you did,” I reply, pushing my chair back so I can better keep an eye on Ethan as he walks away from the table and goes to lean against the sideboard. “I never knew you felt that way and again apologise for shutting down and pulling away like I did, but... This was probably wrong of me, and I'd be lying if I said I'd actually given any real thought to anything other than my wish to retreat to the office, but although I'd decided to leave the team I hadn't wanted to, well, lose you. I'd accepted that I probably would, that given what happened in Havana you wouldn't want anything, either professionally or... other... to do with me anyway, but... What went down, how it ended like it did, I... That wasn't what I wanted. I never wanted to hurt you and I didn't want to lose our friendship, but...”

“You didn't lose my friendship,” Ethan interrupts, frowning as, after a moment's hesitation, he returns to the table and crouches down in front me. “I took it from you because, okay, I'll admit that I was hurt. You level the accusation of selfishness at yourself for not wanting to return to field work, well the same can be said for the way I reacted. I shut down because I was losing what I took for granted and, instead of fighting for it, I just accepted it and turned my back on you. If that wasn't selfish and self-absorbed then I don't know what is. Look, Will...” Placing one hand on my knee and cupping my cheek with the other, he meets my eyes and, smiling sadly, slowly shakes his head. “We both went about it all wrong, didn't we...”

Leaning into his touch, I release a deep shuddery breath and nod. “Well and truly,” I murmur, placing my hand over Ethan's. “I let you go because I thought it was the right thing to do and because I'd offended you, and...”

“And I went because it was what I was used to and because it was easier than owning up to the fact that I cared... uh... care... for you deeply,” Ethan finishes. “Leaving, and focussing on both laying all the blame squarely at Bennett's feet and hunting him down, was easier than doing what, hopefully better late than never, I'm doing now, and that's pleading for your forgiveness and begging for a second chance. I... I want you in my life, Will, and I'll take whatever I can get.”

“I... I want you in my life too,” I confess, not quite daring to believe this might possibly be leading where I hope like crazy it is, but at the same time knowing that I have to seize the moment and speak from the heart. “I don't know yet if I want to go back to field work, but what I do know, what I've always known, is that I want you and, yes, I'll absolutely take whatever I can get. I don't want another five months like the ones that have just passed and even if it's just as friends I know I'll feel better knowing you're around.”

“Just friends?”

“Well...” Feeling myself blushing, I pull my hand away and sit up straighter. “What Bennett did, I... I'd understand if...”

Ethan's lips settling on mine both silencing my protests and answering them better than words ever could, I eagerly welcome the kiss and, moving in unison, we both stand up so as to be able to wrap our arms around each other for a tight embrace. I doubt, not even if my life depended on it, that I'd be able to choose between the relief I'm feeling and the sensation of Ethan's body and lips pressed warmly against mine as the cause behind the tears welling in my eyes. More no doubt both needs to and will be said, but for now I'm happy to accept what's being freely given to me and to just go with it.

“Whatever you're willing to give, Will,” Ethan murmurs, breaking the kiss to whisper directly in my ear, “I'll take it with open arms.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I've changed my mind,” Ethan announces just as the elevator reaches our floor and the doors glide silently open. “You're on your own.”

“Like hell I am,” I retort as, grabbing him by the hand, I quite literally pull him along with me as I step out of the elevator. “You said you'd come with me and... you're coming with me. End of story.”

“Just...” Pulling a face, Ethan positions himself in front of me and blocks my path to the door. “I know! Just consider going in on your own as your first mission.”

“Nice try, but my first mission was over a decade a go,” I reply, failing dismally in my attempt to affect a stern expression and laughing instead. “So, you know, that cherry has well and truly been popped.”

“First mission in respect to being back on the team?” he murmurs hopefully as he peers over my shoulder towards the door and wrinkles his nose at the thought of what's lying in wait for him behind it.

“Yeah, well, if that's the case I'm choosing not to accept.” Smirking, I give Ethan's shoulder a condescending pat and step around him. “Man up and let's get it over and done with.”

“Man up?”

“You'd perhaps prefer suck it up, princess?”

“My, you've got a delightful turn of phrase.”

“Swallow some concrete and harden the fuck up, that work any better for you?”

“I'm not sure it would work for anyone,” Ethan groans as, deliberately putting on a show of dragging his feet, he trails behind me. “Where do you learn these phrases from anyway? Benji?”

“Jane.” Grinning, I come to a stop by the door and close my hand around the handle. “Ready for this?”

“You damn well know I'm not,” Ethan sighs, running his finger under the collar of his shirt. “I'm here to tell you now that I won't be held responsible for my actions if he says something stupid.”

“If?” I mutter with a dry snort. “I'd say you can pencil it in as a definite.”

“Fine. Assuming I can control myself in the face of his stupid, inane babble, if he touches me, and I even include simply wanting to shake hands here, I'm going to lose it.”

“Tell you what, if he touches you I promise to break his fingers. Does that help?”

“Incredibly.”

“So, let's get this show on the road, yeah?”

“Bring it on,” Ethan declares, planting a very quick kiss on my cheek as, taking charge, he opens the door and steps into the office. “Maybe he won't even be here,” he adds as I follow him through the door and smile a greeting at Monica as she looks up from her desk to check out just who it is who's daring to enter the analysts' inner-sanctum.

“Given that both nowhere and no one else will have him, of course he'll be here,” I respond, scanning the office for the object of our only half meant in banter derision and finding him barrelling towards us with a look of sheer delight on his face. Well, that is, barrelling towards Ethan looking as though today is now officially the 'best day ever' in his books. I honestly suspect I could drop dead on the floor in front of him and I'd be lucky if he bothered to step over me as opposed to on me in his haste to get to Ethan. “You're on,” I smirk, clapping Ethan on the shoulder as, ignoring Carlson as completely as he's ignoring me, I hurry off and disappear into what can now once again be referred to as my 'old' office.

A week has passed since I woke up in Ethan's bed and we started down the long, difficult, twisty and quite frequently brilliant path on our way to where we are now. It wasn't particularly smooth, and there were times when the right words to say were failing both of us equally and it seemed as though we'd never be able to find our way back on track, but we eventually got there in the end and, as hard as it's been, I think we're both better men for it. We know now that we need to fight for what we think we want and that it's far better to have given something a go and, if the case proves to be, fail than it is to let it slip from your fingers and not pursue it. There's still a long way to go and I don't think Ethan is kidding himself any more in respect to this than I am. What we used to have was a sort of team-mates-with-benefits set up and now, despite heading into uncharted waters, we're wanting to try our luck at having a proper relationship. Well, as proper as things are ever likely to get between saving the world and dodging bullets. It's going to take hard work – a lot of hard work – but I think, having made it this far that we have as good a chance as any relationship does of making it.

And, even if we don't we can at least say we tried. Which, compared to the constant dull ache and lack of direction of the past five months, definitely has to count for something.

I've even, entirely of my own accord and with no pressure from Ethan whatsoever, decided to return to the team and to field work. Although I stand by my reasons for quitting in the first place, with the benefit of both a little hindsight and, regardless of how simple it ultimately was, a successful return to field work in Dallas, I can see now how the decision was fear – if not depression and/or nerves – based and I want to put it all behind me and move on. I need to know I can do it and I'm confident that I can. If I wasn't I wouldn't have grovelled to the Secretary for his blessing this morning and nor would I be making Ethan brave an encounter with Carlson in order to retrieve my mug and snow globe from the office.

Which, speak of the devil...

“Have a nice chat?” I inquire cheerfully as, looking flustered, Ethan arrives in the office and shoots me a sour look. “I'll take that as a no, shall I?”

“There's something not quite right about him,” Ethan mutters, glancing over his shoulder as though he half expects Carlson to be looming up behind him. “He wanted me to put a good word in to the Secretary about getting him field experience before raving on about how a man of his skill and ability is wasted sitting behind a desk.”

Moving over to my desk, I retrieve the – unwashed and quite possibly mouldy – mug from its spot by the computer monitor before shifting over to the bookcase and picking up the snow globe. “How'd you shake him off?” I query, holding the snow globe up and shaking it so he can see the sand storm engulf the tiny Burj Khalifa. “Please don't tell me you threatened to shoot him...”

“As it wouldn't have been a threat, you would have heard the shot,” Ethan retorts, taking the snow globe from me and peering at it intently. “You're not telling me that...this... is what you dragged me here for?”

“That, and the mug,” I reply, holding the mug out so he can see it. “There were times when seeing them was the only highlight of the day and I felt I owed it to both the inanimate objects themselves and Benji to rescue them. Now, see the microscopic black dot clinging to the Burj Khalifa? That's you. You've been immortalised in a snow-slash-sand globe.”

Laughing, Ethan turns the glass globe around in his hand and shakes his head. “My life is now complete.”

“I know. To be honest I'm jealous.”

“Benji made this?”

“I assume so. In fact, I'm thinking of commissioning him to make a series commemorating every stupidly tall thing you've clung to or thrown yourself out of over time. It would probably keep him busy for years.”

“For life, more like,” Ethan replies with another laugh. “Now, having rescued your treasures are you good to go?”

I nod and start to head towards the door. “Come on. I'll buy you lunch to make up for the horror of Carlson.”

“It's going to take more than lunch to make up for it, but, okay, because I find it hard to say no to you I'll accept it as a start.”

“How big of you.”

“I thought so.”

Walking out of the office my good humour immediately evaporates at the sight of Carlson – clearly lying in wait – leaning against his desk, his gaze trained on the door. His eyes are narrowed and his expression cold, and this tells me that his joy at having Ethan around is already a thing of the past and that I'm the one he's gunning for. Not wanting, however, for him to get the first word in, I fake a smile and murmur, “Carlson. As I'm sure you've already heard I'm returning to...”

“I don't know why you're bothering to clear the office,” he interrupts, pushing away from his desk and striding up to me. “You'll be back, Brandt,” he continues snidely, jabbing his finger into my chest and causing Ethan, who's close enough behind me to feel, to stiffen. “You're not up to field work and you'll be back here with your tail between your legs before we've even noticed you've gone.”

“That's it!” Ethan exclaims. “Carlson...”

“It's okay, I've got this,” I interrupt with a calm, benign smile as I hand my mug over to Ethan before sidling up to Carlson and, to his obvious discomfort, broadening my smile. “How's this for a deal, Carlson. If I want to come back here before your dental work is completed, I'll convince the Secretary to make you Chief Analyst and will even work under you. What do you say, is it a deal?”

Scowling, Carlson shakes his head and takes a step backwards. “What are you talking about. I don't need any dental...”

The rest of his statement becoming a moot point as my fist collides with his jaw – and, gratifyingly, a tooth does indeed come flying out – he staggers backwards and, clutching his cheek, stares at me as though I'd just grown horns and declared myself the Antichrist.

“Now, what was that you were saying about not needing dental work?” I query politely as Ethan chokes back laughter and someone somewhere in the office claps.

“You... You crazy fucking bastard,” Carlson mumbles thickly as, spitting blood into the palm of his hand, he stumbles away from the desk. “I'll have you. Everyone here saw what you...”

“I didn't see anything,” Ethan murmurs, shrugging, “and I very much doubt anyone else did either, so, go and clean yourself up and get over it.”

“Get over it?” Carlson splutters, giving Ethan a wounded look. “Ethan!”

Ignoring Carlson's pleading use of his name, Ethan glances at me and tilts his head in the direction of the exit. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” I confirm as, turning my back on Carlson both figuratively and literally, we begin to walk towards the door, both of us with smiles stretched across our lips. “Now, having got something I should have done ages ago out of the way, where would you like to go for lunch?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Cracking an eye open, I half lift my head up from the pillow and peer groggily in the vague direction of the clock-radio on the bedside table. Finding it, I note with no real surprise that ten o'clock has already come and gone and, not feeling any more compulsion to get up than I did before I was aware of how late in the morning it actually is, stretch languidly before rolling over onto my stomach and closing my eye. I could get up, I probably... should... get up, and now that I come to think of it a glass of the fresh pineapple juice I know to be in the refrigerator certainly wouldn't go astray right about now, but holidays, as everyone who's ever held down a job knows, don't last for ever and, really, I should make the most of being able to sleep in while I still can. 

Ethan, who it pains me to say has a warped view on holidays in that they're not meant to be a time of rest and relaxation at all and are in fact a time for action and exploring, is already up and most likely has been for hours. Idle curiosity – yeah, okay, coupled with a healthy dose of simply being happier knowing where he is at all times – whispers at me that I should make the effort to get up and track him down, but I'm just too warm, bordering on hot even, and comfortable to give in to the urge to do anything about it. Besides, he won't be far away. Just call it a sixth sense, but I'd know if he was. Deriving an almost childish glee – that I put down to having grown up on a farm in the middle of nowhere – from having the ocean almost lapping at the back door of the holiday rental property, he's probably having a swim and it's a sign of how disinterested I am in the thought of getting out of bed that not even the decided incentive of seeing him dripping wet in low slung, clinging board shorts can rouse me into action.

Yawning, I shift slightly and settle my head on the crook of my folded arm. Despite the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the bedroom's wall of windows and the small fact of life that I've already slept for something like nine hours straight, I'm just beginning to doze off when the sound of footsteps entering the room herald Ethan's return.

“Looking good,” he comments, walking over to the bed and taking a seat on the edge of it.

“You're insatiable,” I mumble into my arm. “It's only been...”

“And as I was referring to this...” Ethan cuts me off with a chuckle and wafts his hand over the still healing phoenix tattoo on my shoulder, “perhaps you're actually the one with the one track mind here, not me.”

“Oh... That.” Although he's not even touching me, my skin breaks out in goosebumps at Ethan's ghost-like touch and a soft sigh escapes unbidden from my lips. The tattoo, only four days old and still requiring frequent applications of moisturiser to stop the itchiness from driving me mad, covers Bennett's offending initials and is actually why we're holidaying in Honolulu, Hawaii, in the first place. Ethan was so appalled when he saw that I still – wore Bennett's mark – had the scar that he immediately took it upon himself to suggest – niggle, refuse to take no or general apathy for an answer – ways to get rid of it until, wanting to shut him up and move on, I threw my hands in the air and settled on having it disguised with a tattoo. Pleased that I'd made a decision but refusing to back down until it was done, he then searched high and low for a tattoo artist worthy of such a task and settled on some guy with far too many piercings in far too many places in Honolulu. Not particularly caring either way – I know now that it was the wrong, blasé attitude to have and that, no, not all tattoo artists are the same – I accepted his reasoning that it wasn't too far to travel for a tattoo as we could tie it in with a quick holiday before going back on active duty and just went along with it all.

The tattoo itself, a phoenix to symbolise both rebirth and a new beginning, was the easiest decision to reach as, having come up with no – ideas myself – reasons to argue against his suggestion of the 'bird who rose from the ashes', Ethan sketched a design himself and the second I saw it I just knew it was perfect. Both simple and elegant, the flowing curves of the black ink phoenix follow the lines of Bennett's hateful initials and encompassing them as it does in the design they're no longer visible. The tattoo artist, who had the laid back look about him of a man who'd both seen and done everything, showed far more interest in Ethan's artistic skill than he did in why he was having to tattoo over initials scarred into my shoulder and I'm almost as grateful to him for that as I am for his own incredible skills in doing such a marvellous job in inking it forever into my skin.

“Of course, everything else looks pretty good, too,” Ethan adds, leaning forward and planting a moist kiss directly on the tattoo.

“Insatiable,” I repeat, smiling as I open my eyes and slowly roll over onto my back. Looking up at Ethan as he kneels over me, I take in the – pretty good itself – sight of him wearing the clinging board shorts sitting low on his lean hips that I'd wistfully imagined earlier and exclaim, “Wet! You're all wet!”

“And again with wowing me with your exceptional observation skills,” Ethan smirks, running his hand through his wet hair and flicking droplets of water at me.

“Not only do I have great observation skills, but I'm also intelligent enough to know what a towel's for,” I retort, batting his hand away as I sit up and stretch. “Which I'm thinking may be more than can be said for you.”

“Maybe I was just in a rush to get back to you and couldn't be bothered wasting the time to dry myself.”

“Touching, but you should know by now I like my sleep-ins too much to get up and do a runner on you.”

“The water's lovely this time of morning. You don't know what you're missing out.”

“Oh but I do. And that's a sleep-in.”

Grinning, Ethan reaches out and gently strokes his fingers along the length of my cheek. “Then you should make the most of them,” he murmurs, leaning closer and kissing the tip of my nose. “Happy?”

“Mmm...” Shifting into a kneeling position, I pay no attention to the sheet, the only thing that's been covering my nakedness, slipping away, and drape my arms over Ethan's shoulders and rest my forehead against his. “Very.”

And I am too. 

Not only is my life back on track but it's also better than it was before what happened in Havana to change it. Ethan and I have a much better understanding of just how much we mean to each other and what it means when we close ourselves off and don't talk. I also know now what it is I want from life and not only what it is I need to do to achieve it but also that I'm prepared to do whatever it takes. Be it the magic of being on holiday and away from familiar surroundings or be it solely down to Ethan and his seemingly innate ability to make me feel special without, I suspect, even trying, I've even regained my sexuality that Bennett had put a severe dint in and can once again give myself both freely and willingly. The first time, here in this very bed, was solely because I wanted to. I wanted to take charge, to banish Bennett's treacherous touch once and for all, but most of all I simply wanted Ethan. I wanted his touch, to prove to both of us that things were really going to be okay.

And they were.

Just as they still are.

“And you?” I query, lifting my head so I can look into Ethan's eyes. “Are you happy?”

“Very.” Nodding, he slides his arms around my waist and kisses my cheek. “Incredibly happy, even.”

“That's good to...” The rest of my response being drowned out by the doorbell ringing, I glance inquiringly at Ethan and shrug. “Expecting anyone?”

“At least you didn't go with your award winning 'doorbell' statement again,” he replies facetiously as, the doorbell ringing out again, he frowns and climbs off the bed. “As I'm at least half dressed, I'll get it.”

“We could always just ignore it?”

“We could, but as no one knows we're here I'm curious now.”

“Want back up?”

“I think I'm good.”

“Think?”

“I'll break something to get your attention if I need rescuing.”

“Okay.”

Pulling the sheet up to my waist, I've barely finished settling myself against the mound of pillows at my back when Ethan returns to the bedroom carrying a fruit basket that looks incredibly similar to the one that greeted us in the kitchen when we got here.

“Another one?” I murmur as he places it on the dressing table and starts to unwrap the cellophane covering it. “We've barely touched the first one.”

“Ah, but this one has an added bonus,” Ethan replies, reaching into the basket and pulling out a small black flash drive. “Looks like you might have been wise making the most of your sleep-in this morning.”

“Looks like,” I mutter, watching Ethan plug the flash drive into the wall mounted flat screen television before snatching up the remote from the dressing table and sinking down on the bed. “Mind you, who said we have to accept it...?”

Raising an eyebrow, Ethan makes himself comfortable next me and turns on the television. “Have... you... ever refused one?”

“Well, no.”

“That's what I thought,” he grins, his face lighting up in anticipation of learning of the no doubt danger and threat to civilisation as we know it that awaits us as the instantly recognisable IMF logo fills the screen. “You ready for this?”

“Always,” I respond, returning his grin as, in perfect unison with the faceless voice coming from the television, we both state...

“Your mission, if you choose to accept it...”

~ end ~


End file.
